An Indirect Proof
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Rick Martinez joins the CIA and meets the ODS: Michael Dorset, Casey Malick and Carson Simms. AU
1. PROLOGUE

Title: An Indirect Proof (1/9)

Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.

A/N: I'm not sure why I wanted to write this, but LOL, I wrote it anyway. The basic premise is what if it wasn't Carson who went missing in North Africa three years ago? How would that change things? Much thanks to **lena7142** for cheerleading this effort and to **penless **for her tireless beta work. I think there are nine parts to this story total, and it is completed. I will be posting hopefully every Thursday and Monday until it's up.

Spoilers: Heavy for the entire series. References to every ep.

Warnings: AU

Summary: Rick Martinez joins the CIA and meets the ODS: Michael Dorset, Casey Malick and Carson Simms.

-o-  
**  
PRELUDE  
**_  
THREE YEARS AGO – North Africa  
_  
Months of planning, years of intelligence, and it all came down to the last thirty minutes. They had one chance – make it or break it – and Michael wasn't prone to fear, but he was a paranoid bastard, so a healthy sense of what might go wrong was inevitable.

And there was a lot that could go wrong. No matter how much time they'd spent prepping for this mission, these last thirty minutes were really all that mattered. Salazar was poised to break onto the counterfeiting scene in a big way – if he escaped from this operation, his place would be cemented and bringing him down would be so much harder. Right now, they had everything they needed. With this bust they could catch his latest order of American bills, his printing press in production, and even the plates themselves.

Thirty minutes and Ernesto Salazar would go from the next big thing to the next convict behind bars.

Thirty minutes. One chance.

Needless to say, Michael wanted to be sure they did this right.

"We'll split up into two teams," Michael reminded them. They were pressed just outside the perimeter of Salazar's bunker, their designated safety point. If they were here in thirty minutes, they were home free. If they weren't…

Michael didn't need to go into what would happen if they weren't. His team was good. More than that, they were ready. Casey was primed and ready, positively anxious to move. Billy looked confident and good natured, inexplicably smiling despite the pending conflict. Carson was weary enough for all of them, signs of exhaustion and age showing on his face.

They didn't look like much, but Michael trusted them with his life. More than that, he trusted them with this mission.

"Carson," Michael said, because he'd known Carson the longest. They'd worked together in Cambodia on a mission that had both saved Michael's life and defined his career. There was no one he trusted more than Simms. "You take Billy, head straight to Salazar's office. We need him alive in order to have a good chance at bringing him to trial and dismantling the counterfeiting outfit worldwide."

Carson nodded, glancing briefly at Billy. The Scottish operative was the youngest and newest to the team, and his enthusiasm was still palpable. "Salazar is awash in criminal activity, but somehow I doubt he'll put up much of a fight," Billy said.

"A few downed guards and Salazar will cave," Casey agreed. "He's got a weak stomach."

"Well, I can hardly blame him," Billy said. "The sight of blood is far from my favorite thing."

"He's still dangerous," Carson interjected, ever the voice of weary reason. "So we need to focus."

Michael nodded. "Carson's right," he said. "That's why you two need to move quickly and apprehend Salazar while Casey and I get the plates."

It would be the more dangerous job, which was why Michael had taken it for himself. Salazar would be guarded but with the press in production, there would be men everywhere on the production line. Which was why he'd decided to take Casey with him this time. Usually he put Casey with Billy, not just because it drove the older operative crazy, but because even after three years Billy was still the new kid on the team, and it wasn't that Michael didn't trust him, but it was just that Michael didn't quite trust him.

Paranoid bastards were also overprotective and irrational sons of bitches, sometimes.

But Michael would need the backup. Besides, Carson was good with the kid. Taking down Salazar was not exactly an easy order, but it was definitely one they could handle.

"Once we have what we came for, we need to get out – and fast," Michael said.

"They're probably not going to be too happy," Casey said.

"You think?" Carson said sarcastically. "We might as well be talking about a suicide mission, these guys are going to be so trigger happy."

Billy waved his hand. "A little peril comes with the territory."

"This is more than a little peril," Carson said. "I did the background on these guys. They have firepower and they're not afraid to use it. Once they catch wind that they've been infiltrated, they'll use whatever force they think is necessary to keep us from getting out of there alive."

"And we'll use whatever force necessary to get back out," Casey said.

Michael sighed. They were all right, which really was the problem. "It's a dangerous mission," he agreed, eyeing each of his teammates carefully. "But if we don't do this, if we let Salazar get away, we may never get another chance."

Billy looked intent; Casey was focused.

Carson collected a breath, jaw tight. "It's a hell of a risk," he said, wavering more than he normally did. Carson was like that, though. He was the only one of them who had a shred of common sense, which also meant he was the only one who ever entertained the logical notion of walking away.

He was also, not coincidentally, the guy who was always getting outvoted.

Carson let out the breath, shaking his head. "We'd be a hell of a lot smarter just walking away."

It was true. But the ODS hadn't scored countless successful missions by being smart. They achieved such things by being thorough and doing the job that no one else would do. It was why Michael had taken all the risks into consideration and still planned the mission anyway.

And why his team would follow him. Not without question, not without hesitation, but follow him all the same.

Carson looked at Michael. He looked at Casey and Billy, and shrugged helplessly. "All right," he said, throwing his hands up in surrender.

Michael nodded. "Okay, then," he said. "Any other questions?"

"Just one," Casey said. "When do we go?"

Carson's face was grim but Billy's eyes were keen. Michael couldn't help it if he smiled. "How about now?"

"Excellent," Billy said, rubbing his hands together.

"Thirty minutes," Michael reminded him. "I need all of you back here in thirty minutes for extraction – no matter what."

"Will do, oh fearless leader," Billy said, grinning impishly.

"I'll make it in twenty," Casey promised.

"Thirty minutes," Carson repeated gravely.

"Then let's do this," Michael said, looking at Carson, at Casey, at Billy – one last time – before they headed in.

-o-

Michael didn't get very far before he realized that something was wrong.

Their approach was too easy; security was too lax. There were no guards in the hallway, no one to hide from as they made their way.

And it was quiet. An eerie stillness, not the controlled chaos he'd expected for a compound readying to pack up and move out.

It was making him nervous, and next to him, Casey was downright twitchy. "I thought the intel on this place said they were doing a major production today," he hissed as they moved through the barren corridors.

Jaw tight, Michael kept his gun up as they moved. "They should have just started," he said back, voice low as he pressed marginally closer to his teammate.

Casey inclined his head. "If you say so."

He did. But Michael was starting to think that might not mean anything at all.

-o-

As they reached the production room, Michael slowed them to a crawl. Despite the quiet in the halls, Michael mentally prepared himself for the possibility of confrontation. After all, with production going on, it was entirely possible that Salazar's men were mostly tied up. The hallways might be abandoned because everyone was in here.

Which would make their jobs so much harder.

With his back against the wall, Casey went wide to the far side of the door. For a moment, Michael stilled his breathing and listened.

Nothing.

No voices.

No machines.

Frowning, he glanced at Casey, who shrugged.

Michael shrugged back. They had a mission, and they couldn't turn back just because things had been too easy.

Eyes locked on Casey's again, he nodded. Once, twice—

And then they were moving. Michael led, kicking open the doors and toting his gun up. Casey came in hard behind him, armed with two weapons as they burst through, ready for—

Nothing.

Michael's heart was pounding and his breathing was heavy, the adrenaline pulsating through him. They had the right place – there was the printing press – but it wasn't running. There was no money being printed; there wasn't even money sitting around. There were no workers.  
_  
Nothing.  
_  
Michael's hair stood on end, and he swallowed hard against the gnawing uncertainty in his stomach. Casey moved forward, still cautious, touching the machine.

"It's cool," he said. He looked back toward Michael. "They haven't been used all day."

Which meant they were gone.

Which meant their intel had been wrong.

Or—

Michael's stomach twisted and he felt a little ill.

Or someone knew they were coming.

"Do you smell that?" Casey asked.

Michael frowned. He was about to say no when he did.

Smoke.

Eyes wide, Michael turned just in time to see one of the far offices explode, fire billowing out in wafts of smoke as the glass shattered and the room shook, almost throwing Michael and Casey to the ground. Even if he kept his feet, it didn't do him much good, not as the fresh fire licked at the surrounding walls, catching the drywalls and sparking in earnest.

And the entire mission literally went up in flames.

-o-

Michael's plan had been to leave Salazar's compound with the plates, the bills and the man himself.

As the flames took hold, though, Michael was just worried about getting his men out alive.

Turning hard, Michael didn't spare another glance to see if there was anything to salvage. The entire building reeked of a set up, and that was humiliating enough. The idea of losing one of his men—

Well, that idea wasn't acceptable. Intel or not intel, Michael would get his men out.

"Go," he said, prodding Casey hard and propelling him back toward the door. "Go!"

Casey, ever vigilant, didn't need to be prompted. He was already moving, one step ahead of Michael as they ran back the way they'd come. In the hallways, the smoke was already started to drift and Michael paused just long enough to turn and pull the heavy doors shut behind him. It wouldn't do much, but if it bought them a few minutes, it'd be worth it.

It clicked into place, and Michael looked back to Casey, who was holding his sleeve over his face. "What about Simms and Collins?" he asked.

Michael put his own sleeve up with a wince. "We can wind our way back around—"

He was going to say they'd wind their way back, move toward Salazar's office in an attempt to circumvent Carson and Billy. It was entirely possible that they were on a fool's errand, too, and Michael could only hope that Salazar's office hadn't been any more booby trapped than the production room. If it was, Carson and Billy might need the back up. Even if it wasn't, Michael would prefer to let his team know the building was on fire since there didn't seem to be any kind of fire alarm in place.

But before he could say anything like that, another explosion shook the room, sending Michael reeling. There was a flash of light and he was weightless before he hit something hard and everything went dark.

-o-

Smoke.

It smelled like a bonfire, like the ones on the camping trips his dad had taken him on when he was a kid. With hot dogs and beans in a can and marshmallows, tucked together beneath the stars before his dad had left.

Michael hadn't been young enough to be sentimental about that, but if the sound of a crackling fire reminded him of home, if he slept with his father's smoke-worn blanket, then that was just the way it was.

The problem was, though, that this wasn't a campfire. And his father was dead, and Michael had promised himself that no one else in his life would die – at least not for a lack of effort.

So Michael planned and controlled and—

Remembered.

Smoke. Fire. Salazar. The mission.

He opened his eyes, inhaling sharply and promptly coughing. For a minute, everything was skewed, a blur of orange flame and hazy smoke. He was on his side, half-buried under some loose rubble.

Above him the ceiling was cracked, a gaping hole to the upper floor. The walls were badly damaged, and Michael was severely disoriented as he tried to catch his breath.

Not that it did much good. There were missions that went wrong and then there were missions that went really wrong.

And then there were missions that literally blew up, leaving Michael and his operatives in one hell of a lurch.

His operatives.

Jolting up, Michael ignored the stab of pain in his side, radiating fully down his leg and up to his neck. His head throbbed, vision swimming as he gagged on the thick air again.

"Casey!" he called out, the words choked. He cleared his throat, squinting so he could see. "Casey!"

In response, the fire crackled and the structure above him groaned. Michael eyed it warily. It held, but he noted the way it was buckling. Without the wall to support it, the entire upper floor was at risk of caving in.

Michael had survived two explosions; he wasn't sure he wanted to risk a collapsed building, too. Especially not with Casey…

"Casey!" Michael yelled again, on his hands and knees now, groping blindly through the wreckage. Casey hadn't been far from him, and the force of the blast couldn't have carried him too far off. He had to be here. Somewhere close.

Michael's fingers scrabbled against the debris, cutting on something sharp. He hissed but pressed on. "Casey!"

The fire danced across the hallway, catching on one of the timbers that had fallen across not far ahead of them. Michael was running out of time…

Then – something gave. Something warm and soft and human.

"Casey," Michael said, running his hand up and feeling Casey's leg. Brushing debris out of the way, Michael uncovered the rest of Casey and got a good look at his teammate for the first time.

The human weapon was unconscious, face half covered in blood. There was a large gash somewhere near his hair line, dripping thick wetness everywhere. In the dimness and with the smoke, it was hard to tell just how serious it was, but if Casey wasn't awake and bitching at him to get moving, it was bad enough.

Michael paused, just for a moment. The mission was a wash, but Casey wasn't his only teammate. With the latest explosion, the rest of the compound was in jeopardy. And he had no way of knowing how Carson and Billy were faring.

The building shuddered and the ceiling above him groaned.

Carson and Billy were a concern, but Michael could only handle one concern at a time. And for now, that concern was Casey.

Gritting his teeth, Michael reached down and took Casey's arm. Fresh flames sparked above him, and Michael felt the heat as he pulled Casey into a sitting position. His side protested, but he ignored it, pulling Casey over his shoulders and getting to his feet.

For a second, he wobbled. His lungs burned and his skin felt singed. The path they had come was blocked now – obscured with smoke and the caved in wall – so he turned, pushing in the other direction and hoping for a lucky break for once.

-o-

Luck, whether Michael liked to admit it or not, tended to play a fairly large role in the success and failure of his missions. True, he'd memorized the specs of the building as best he could, had mapped out escape routes and the fastest escapes, but when the entire building was coming down and the smoke was so thick he could hardly breath, it was really luck that he found his way out at all.

Outside, he still had to run a few dozen yards before the air cleared enough to take in a strangled breath of fresh air. It made him hack, and he stumbled, Casey's weight still heavy on his shoulders. The heat pressed at his back, and he knew that weakness was not something he could indulge just yet.

Behind him, the fire roared, and Michael continued at a staggering pace. His lungs felt like they were being squeezed and his vision swam dangerously, his entire side almost numb with pain. He hardly felt it, though – he didn't have time to feel it. He had to get Casey clear.

With no regard for subterfuge anymore, Michael headed fast toward the closest checkpoint exit, which was unsurprisingly unmanned. His legs started to throb, the need for air strangely pressing even in the bright sunlight.

When he finally tripped, crashing to his knees, he let Casey topple gently from his shoulders to the roadside just outside the compound. For a moment, he focused on breathing, sucking greedily, though to little avail. Still, it was enough to clear his head just so, and he forced himself back to his feet to look back.

The fire had nearly engulfed the building now; smoke was billowing into the sky. That would get attention – and soon – and not likely from people who would take kindly to four CIA agents milling about in North Africa.

Four CIA agents.

Michael looked back to Casey. His eyes were still closed, face smudged with soot and blood, almost unrecognizable. But his chest was heaving, wheezing breaths that Michael could hear. He needed a hospital. Michael probably did, too.

He looked back at the raging fire. Billy and Carson were still back there. Maybe they'd escaped out a different exit; maybe they were working their way back to the rendezvous. Maybe…

Michael had to rely on luck more than he liked, but he rarely trusted his men's lives with it if he had the choice. Aching, sore, and gasping as he was, Michael still had a choice.

Leaving Casey wasn't ideal, but the place was abandoned and even if the authorities were on their way, Michael still had some time to double back and get him. Forcing his legs to move, he took a limping step forward, controlling a wince and gritting his teeth hard. The next step was easier, even if it hurt just as bad, and soon he was moving in a lopsided run. Not his fastest, but it had to be fast enough.

Even so, his vision was tunneling, and he vaguely wondered how badly he was hurt. At the checkpoint his head went light and he found himself bent over, hands on his knees. He shook his head, breathing hard through his nose. He had to do this. He had to.

Pushing himself up again, he started moving and almost ran right into someone.

The impact threw him off kilter, but hands caught him, propping him up. "Michael?"

Michael blinked, squinting up at the familiar face. Graying hair, weathered features. "Carson?"

"Yeah, man," Carson said, his face twisted in worry. "You're not looking so hot there, boss."

Michael grimaced, straightening. "The entire thing was a set up."

Carson's face was grave. "I know," he said. "Where's Casey?"

Michael nodded over his shoulder. "He took a hard hit to the head," he said. "I got him back there." Then he paused, realizing there was something missing. His mind was more sluggish than he thought because he hadn't noticed the glaring absence of Scottish brogue until now. "Billy?"

Carson paled even more.

Michael's shakiness turned to numbness. "Simms, where's Billy?" he asked, demanding it now, even if he knew the answer from the look in Carson's eyes, from the fact that the man was standing there in front of him. Alone.

Carson's face fell, eyes wet. "Michael—"

Michael's mind rebelled. It wasn't true. It _wasn't. _Collins was the new kid, prone to disaster and overly exuberant. He was a bit on the annoying side and far too overzealous for his own good. But he was a gifted spy. He was a worthy teammate. He was Michael's responsibility.

He shook his head.

Carson's mouth fell open and he took a ragged breath. "I…I couldn't do anything," he said. "I'm sorry."

Carson was apologizing. He looked wrecked and broken because he cared about Billy. Hell, he'd taken the kid under his wing from the moment he'd arrived from MI6. He'd shown the kid the ropes, been the kid's best friend, took the time with him when neither Michael or Casey knew how or were so inclined.

And Carson was apologizing. Which meant Michael was too late. Which meant—

"He's dead," Carson said finally, the words gruff and broken. "He went down on the other side of some debris. I tried to get him, I really did, but I couldn't – there was nothing I could do—"

Michael shook his head. He didn't doubt what Carson thought he saw, but Michael wouldn't believe it. Not until he saw the body, not until he felt for a pulse.

Not yet.

Pushing forward, he tried to move past Carson.

The older man put a hand on his arm. "Michael, it's too late—"

Michael shook him off. "I'm not leaving him in there," he shouted back, pushing himself forward valiantly with every ounce of strength he had. He would find Billy. He would bring him home. He_ would._

And then another explosion rocked him.

The force of the blast threw him off his feet, and he hit the pavement on his back, head knocking hard. He blinked dazedly, staring up as smoke and fire danced in his peripheral vision.

Then Carson was there, pulling him up. Michael wanted to protest, but he couldn't move. Couldn't do anything as Carson hauled him away. Could only watch while the roof caved in and the walls were consumed, the blazing fire consuming everything in its path, until there was nothing left.

Nothing left at all.


	2. SECTION ONE

A/N: Thanks for those who read the prologue! Here we start in the present, so this has heavy references to the Pilot. With some dialogue lifted directly. You'll see why if you read it :) Other notes in the prologue!

**SECTION ONE  
**_  
PRESENT DAY – Langley, Virginia  
_  
Rick had spent his entire life training to be in the CIA.

True, official training had only begun when he'd been accepted to the Farm. While most of his classmates were recruited from their disparate backgrounds – military, linguistics, and the like – he'd been taken because he'd spent his life dedicating himself to the best of it all.

He could speak eight languages with appropriate fluency. There were another five or so he was passable with. And he had a working knowledge of as many more as he'd heard of. He'd also studied world history in depth, and could accurately recite the major armed conflicts starting from the Roman Empire onward. He had a keen understanding of world politics, and had volunteered for as many civic causes as he'd been able to.

Rick hadn't just focused on his raw intellect, but he had also perfected the necessary practical skills. He was trained for endurance, a strong cross training regimen that he hadn't wasted on school sports but dedicated, individualized training designed to maximize his stamina and speed. He had tried a wide range of fighting techniques and had been appropriately capable in all of them.

He was also adept with firearms and knew enough about science to help him understand nuclear physics, chemical warfare, and electronic systems. He hadn't had many opportunities to see this knowledge put into action, but he was highly confident in his ability to adapt in the field when it was necessary.

And it would be necessary. Because Rick had spent his entire life training to be in the CIA.

He was strong; he was smart; he was ready to serve his country. In any capacity they needed.

Rick had some aspirations for grandeur, but he hadn't expected a glorious posting right away. What he hadn't expected, however, was to be a mole.

No one liked moles. No one trusted moles, just like no one trusted internal affairs departments or internal reviews. There was something unsettling about not trusting one of your own, and Rick had always figured that in the world of espionage, being able to trust the men and women who served with you was essential.

Perhaps that had been his idealism. Spies were spies. They spied on people around the world. Maybe they could spy on each other, too.

And if the head of clandestine operations wanted him to spy on his so-called teammates, maybe there was a reason. Rick had promised to serve his country in any way possible, no matter the call.

Even if it was to be a mole.

Rick had spent his entire life training to be in the CIA.

And there he was. The newest member of the Office of Disruptive Services.

Taking a breath, he stood outside the door, rally his strength, calmed his nerves, and prepared to go in.

-o-

"Get the door, would you."

Rick startled, looking up. A small, diminutive man was coming down the hall, pushing an office chair right at him.

He was also talking to Rick.

"Oh," Rick said, a little surprised. Too startled to think otherwise, he turned the knob, pushing the door open as the man squeezed past him, pushing the chair inside.

"Put the flask away, Carson," the man ordered tersely. "New guy."

Blankly, Rick followed, not sure what else to do. The man pushed the chair around to one of the four desks. A man seated in the desk closest to the door turned, giving Rick an unimpressed once over. "Man, they keep getting younger, don't they?" he said. "How old are you anyway, kid?"

"Um, old enough," Rick said.

The man didn't seem to be paying any attention to him. Instead, he'd turned, peaking over toward the desk where the chair had been deposited. "You snagged one!" he said. "From where?"

"Plotkin," the first man said, making his way around to the far desk.

Rick lifted his eyebrows, eyeing the chair uncertainly. "The chair is stolen?"

"Plotkin won't miss it," the man said, looking studiously at his computer. "Moron ate a bullet last week."

Rick blinked, taking in the implications. "I'm sorry."

The man closest to him sniggered a bit. The first man looked up blandly. "No, literally," he said. "He ate a bullet. On a dare. It lodged in his intestinal tract and you're the proud new owner of his Herman Miller. Let's just hope you show a little more common sense or we'll find a way to put you on disability before you even get those stars out of your eyes."

Rick considered that, not sure what to make of it. A stolen chair, a man out on disability, a dare to eat a bullet – literally.

None of that made much sense.

These were spies. CIA agents. America's best.

Only these two barely looked field worthy. Hell, one of them hardly looked sober and the other hardly looked human.

It didn't _make sense.  
_  
But what did make sense was that he had a desk. Moving closer to it, he gave it a once over. It was mostly stripped bare, but the scuffed top showed plentiful use. The floor around it was also scraped, the locks on the metal drawers all picked with signs of obvious tampering.

A desk. Not a great desk – in fact, Rick thought it almost looked lonely with its obvious disuse – but it was still a desk, and that was a start. If this was the start of his career with the CIA, then at least it could only get better from here.

The man in the desk near the door was sitting up straighter, eyeing Rick's chair with certain curiosity. "You nabbed the supplies, too?"

The man at the computer smirked. "You might find some of those colored paperclips you like so much," he said.

The man strained, looking with interest. But then his expression fell. "Eh, we should let the kid keep them," he said. "He'll probably need all the help he can get."

Rick was ready to protest again, but he didn't have time. The door opened a second time, and Rick wasn't sure whether to be relieved or worried. He had to think there was something more to this team, _someone _to show some semblance of being a respectable spy.

Rick's hopes, however, were quickly dashed. The man who walked in was dressed in another nondescript suit, carrying a computer monitor. He put it on Rick's desk, giving him a banal once-over. "This the new guy?" he asked, sounding skeptical.

"Seems so," the man near the door said. "Though I wish the Agency would stop recruiting out of junior high."

"I'm fully trained," Rick said, a bit defensive now.

The new man grunted just a bit, moving toward the other vacant desk and sitting down. "The computer is all yours," he said. "It's the one freebie you'll get from me. Comes with Windows 97 installed."

It took him a moment to realize what he'd said. Frowning, he worked not to reveal too much emotion even though it didn't seem like much of a freebie at all. "You're joking, right?"

The man leaned back, sighing just a bit. "What do FEMA and the Post Office have in common?"

It was an obvious question – so obvious that Rick looked for the ulterior meaning – when he came up with nothing, he shrugged. "They're government run agencies."

"As is the CIA," the man said, leaning forward again, presumably to get back to work. "When was the last time you walked into the post office and shouted, my God, I've stepped into the future."

It was dripping with sarcasm. It wasn't untrue, but it was also a bit unkind, and the fact was, Rick respected the government. And he respected government run agencies. And he respected the post office. His uncle had been a mail carrier. Rain or shine, every day for fifty years, and it wasn't cutting edge technology that matter, it was heart and integrity and—

Rick worked his jaw, looking at the three men again. The first one was leaned over at his computer, scowling as he clicked his mouse. His plain face showed no particular spark of interest or intelligence. The newest one, who'd brought him the computer, was setting about organizing something on his desk. The third one, the tallest and closest to the door, was watching him keenly.

Hardly what Rick had expected for the elite of the elite. The best America had to offer. People all around the country trusted_ these men _to protect them from foreign threats.

These men, who looked tired, worn, cynical and dull.

It was possible that this was intentional; that it was some kind of spectacular cover that they had spent years perfecting, so honed that they maintained it even while in the office.

Or it was possible that they were just not good agents and that Director Higgins had had justification in appointing him to be a mole among these men.

The tallest one seemed to sigh. He hesitated for a moment before he shrugged reluctantly. "So what's your name, kid?"

Feeling conspicuous, Rick picked lightly through the contents of the box on his chair. The odd assortment of office supplies didn't seem overly useful, and the personal photos were actually a bit unnerving. "Ah, Rick," he said. "Rick Martinez."

The man across from him nodded. "Well, Rick," he said. "I'm Carson Simms. The charming guy with the scowl on his face is Casey Malick." He jerked his head toward the other man. "And that's our fearless leader, Michael Dorset."

Malick didn't even look up. Dorset narrowed his gaze on him.

Simms rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "You might as well get it over with," he said.

Rick frowned, but Simms wasn't talking to him.

Dorset worked his jaw, studying him. "You care to explain why you're here?"

Rick gave him a blank look that was more genuine than not. "Director Higgins hired me."

"Director Higgins has been cutting jobs every chance he gets," Dorset continued. "We're almost understaffed here, and yet, here you are. Seems a bit coincidental, don't you think?"

So much for fitting in and getting a feel for the landscape. Two minutes in and Rick's cover was already in jeopardy, and every second he stood there, staring stupidly, the less they seemed to trust him. Rick shrugged. "I can only assume that the Director's plan is for me to absorb your working knowledge of the Agency."

A deep frown creased Dorset's face.

There was a reason Rick had been chosen for the CIA. There was a reason he was right for this job. Because he _could _do it. Starting here. Starting now. He shrugged. "And then replace you at half the pay."

Dorset's face darkened. Malick still didn't look up. Across from him, Simms gave a breathy laugh. "Kid, be careful what you ask for," he said. "Or you might just get it."

Rick was about to ask for clarification when a phone went off. Then another. Then another. All three members of the ODS got up, almost in unison, grabbing coats wordlessly while moving toward the door.

Despite his best efforts, Rick couldn't help but feel lost. "Something I should know?"

Malick brushed past him coolly. Dorset didn't slow to look at him. Simms gave him a tired look. "Come on," he said. "You'll figure it out soon enough."

As Rick followed his new teammates into the hall, he could only hope that were true.

-o-

In the field, they were fast and efficient. The ODS went about their job without much fanfare or discussion. Dorset drove; Simms navigated. Malick sat in the back next to him and looked menacing.

Rick held on and prayed that he didn't get killed in the States on the first mission that might not be a mission that no one would tell him anything about.

He also prayed that they didn't kill anyone – a legitimate concern as Dorset plowed through traffic, nearly running over a few pedestrians before pulling them to a halting stop with a curse.

"What?" Rick asked, straining to see what the change was.

Simms winced and Dorset shook his head. "We have to make contact."

"With who?" Rick asked.

"Homeland security," Malick told him, pulling an envelope out of his pocket. "See the fat white guy? If we don't give him this, we're screwed."

Rick shook his head. "But—"

"But there's a terrorist in the country and you want to ask questions!" Malick yelled.

Dorset squinted. "Come on, he's moving."

Simms looked back and shrugged. "Got to do it, kid," he said. "Baptism by fire."

Rick looked at his teammates. Looked at the paper. Remembered how proud he was to walk in the front doors this morning.

Resolved, he grabbed the papers, opened the door and ran.

-o-

One minute, Rick was a conquering hero, putting his life on line for the sake of the mission.

The next, he was a traitor.

"You're understandably confused," Dorset said, inclining his head just so.

Rick, still heaving for air, gaped a bit.

"You've been set up," Dorset clarified. "Duped."

Rick stared, mind racing and coming up with no kind of answer that made any of this make sense. "Why?"

Next to him, Malick showed a camera. "To get you to get into a car with a known Russian operative," he said. "Pretty damning stuff."

It was more than damning. It was basically a death sentence. His career, what he'd worked so hard for, mangled by a few lousy pictures on his first day in.

"But," Rick said, still struggling for words. "_Why_?"

"You think we don't know Higgins hired you to spy on us, Mr. Mole?" Malick asked gruffly.

Rick's stomach twisted. He shook his head. "But—"

"But nothing," Dorset said. "We don't care about the reasons or the justifications. All that matters is that you came in thinking you'd be in control. You're not."

Simms was noticeably quiet, and Rick began to feel desperate. But there was nothing he could say. He was a mole. There was nothing he could do. They had him on film sharing documents with a Russian spy.

"Look, this is day one for you, right?" Dorset continued. "Here's your first lesson. Trust isn't earned in the Agency. It's owned. And now we own you."

Dorset said it coolly, putting the car back into gear. Next to him, Malick smirked with satisfaction, putting the camera away. In the passenger's seat, Simms just sighed but didn't look back at him.

Rick had spent his entire life training to be in the CIA.

And it had taken him only one day to possibly throw that lifetime away.

-o-

That night, Rick went home alone. His team had left him alone for the rest of the day, which Rick couldn't decide if that was a blessing or a curse.

At home, he laid on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He thought about Dorset and Malick and Simms. He thought about Dorset's calculating eyes, Malick's snide cynicism. He thought about Simms' gruff detachment. He wondered how these three men had made it as far as they had. They had a certain amount of talent, but where was the idealism? Where was the greater good? What was their purpose? Their overarching mission? These were rogue agents at best, and that sounded well and good but they were old school spooks without any of the old school standards for decency and valor and _everything._

He wondered if maybe he'd done the right thing taking this job after all.

He couldn't earn their trust, but maybe he didn't need it.

Rick closed his eyes. Maybe he didn't need it at all.

(Even if he wanted it.)

-o-

Rick showed up early and held his head high, for what that was worth.

Apparently, it wasn't worth much.

The ODS was sitting at their table, each watching him with impassive faces. Rick stared back, glaring.

"No coffee?" Malick asked finally with an indifferent shrug. "You should have at least brought coffee. It would have gone a long way to winning us back."

But Rick didn't want to win them back at all. Instead, he glowered at them and sat down in his desk. Even if he had no right and no apparent power, he at least had his own desk. He took some solace in that.

"You of all people shouldn't be a caffeine addict, Malick," Simms said.

Malick leveled him with a look. "Like you're one to talk."

Simms rolled his eyes. "I'm just saying go easy on the kid. We all know what it's like to be the new guy."

"And we all know how we earned our way," Dorset said. Then he looked at Rick. "Speaking of which, we have something for you to do."

Rick gave him a look. "What? Selling more secrets? Maybe the Iranians this time, just to up the ante."

Simms choked on a bitter laugh. "At least we haven't taken his sense of humor yet."

"Creative, but no," Dorset said. Then his mouth twisted into a smile. "Nothing quite that bad."

-o-

But as Rick sat in a briefing he hadn't been invited to, putting his reputation and his career on the line with Higgins, it was bad enough.

His face was red, he stammered for a moment, but he did the job as best he could. Clear, concise, certain.

And wrong.

His second day. His second mission.

Failed.

-o-

After a lifetime of training, of succeeding, of getting ahead, walking out from his second day was something of a humiliation. His teammates were blackmailing him. The director was using him as a mole. He'd made a bold assertion and been wrong.

All his hard work, for this.

It was so sad it was actually almost funny.

So when Fay Carson asked him on a date, he figured what the hell. He might as well milk his short time as a spy for one perk in all this: a steak dinner and a beautiful woman.

At least then, it wouldn't be a total wash.

-o-

He hadn't meant to, but talking about the ODS had only made sense. "I don't get them," he said. "I mean, I can't decide who I hate more – them or Higgins."

She laughed wryly. "Why choose?" she said. "Hate equally."

He snorted, picking up his drink. "I just keep thinking that there has to be some greater purpose."

She raised her eyebrows. "For the ODS?" she said. She shook her head. "They're good, but they can't be trusted. They do things their way, and it's probably only a matter of time until their way crosses the wrong lines."

"Is that why Higgins is gunning for them?" Rick asked.

"Higgins is middle management," she sad with a slight shrug. "The ODS gets the job done most of the time, but the minute they screw up, they're more trouble than they're worth to him. He's hedging his bets. Because he knows that if the ODS goes down, they might be able to take him down, too."

"So why not just disband them?" Rick asked. His face screwed up as he thought about them, Dorset and Malick and Simms. "How did those three men even get this far in the Agency?"

Something in her face wavered. "They're not all they seem," she said, a little more reserved now. "What you see is something they've spent years perfecting because the best covers are the ones you keep over your own heart. You've heard of office politics, anyway. Ours come with poison pills and guns."

Rick considered that. Considered her. Considered everything.

Then he stopped thinking.

Because this was a beautiful woman talking about coupling up. And given the past two days, how much worse could it get?

-o-

Worse.

Dorset pulled him out, dragged him to the street. "If you trust Fay, you're stupider than you look," he said.

Rick followed dumbly, still trying to parse how Dorset had found him at all. "But – why?"

"She works for Higgins," Dorset hissed. "You can't trust her."

"Oh," Rick said sarcastically. "Like I can trust you?"

"Fine," Dorset said, manhandling him into a car. "You can't trust me, but you have to listen to me. And if you want to know how we're going to save Aldridge, then I suggest you stop thinking with your downstairs brain and thank me for giving you one last chance to redeem yourself."

One last chance. From the mouth of Michael Dorset, Rick suspected that didn't mean much.

But still. It was better than nothing.

-o-

Sitting at his desk, after everyone had left, Rick tried to get some actual work done. Though his desk had ample space, he found himself lacking in concentration.

Namely because of his team. Even if they weren't here, they were.

And the fact was, they always would be. Their empty chairs were mocking him, and Rick slumped lower onto his desk with a glare.

Rick hated the ODS. He hated everything about them. He hated their laid-back demeanors and their snide commentary. He hated the way Malick sat at the computer and the way Simms never seemed to do anything. He hated Dorset's controlling behavior. He hated the positions they put him in and the things they made him do. He even hated the way their office smelled.

He hated their plotting and their indifference and the way they treated him like he was twelve. He hated that they didn't trust him but used him anyway. He hated the way they didn't socialize, how they worked in silence, how they seemed to hardly be a team despite working together day in and day out.

They were arrogant, closed off and oddly lazy. They were terse, unfriendly, and sketchy. They had no heart, no soul – none of the patriotic fervor or enthusiasm Rick had assumed was necessary for a job this important, this dangerous. They weren't good people and Rick could only speculate that they might not be good spies, either.

He _hated _them.

But a mission.

An honest to God, real life mission.

This was what he had joined the CIA for.

Heroism. Doing the right things. Ignoring all costs.

Sitting at his desk, the clarity was there. This was the one place that he could think, where he felt like he might have a chance. The one thing that was _his._

He couldn't trust the ODS, but he couldn't afford to disregard them entirely. This mission mattered. Not just to him, but to other people. To the_world._

It could be his redemption.

Or his swan song.

Either way, Rick was going to find out.

-o-

For all that Rick had been through in the last week, as he flew over the Atlantic, he thought it might be worth it.

Malick was sleeping across the aisle. Simms was nursing a drink. Dorset was reading something.

Rick sighed and closed his eyes, and hoped it was worth it.

-o-

The ride across the desert was long and hot. No one seemed to want to speak, but Rick found that he couldn't control his nerves.

"Aren't you guys worried what Higgins will say?" he asked.

Dorset didn't even look at him. Malick gave a small grunt.

Rick waited, his question lingering.

Finally Simms sighed. "Don't worry about it, kid," he said.

It was actually almost encouraging. Except Rick wasn't feeling particularly better. "Why not?"

Simms smiled grimly. "Because Higgins is a pain in the ass, but he's not stupid. He won't fire us for getting the job done."

That actually made some sense, especially given what Fay had said. Except: "And what if we don't get it done?"

Simms shrugged.

Malick grunted at him. "It's not like your career has been so stellar until this point," he said. "Going out in a horrific crash and burn would be pretty fitting."

"And at least you'll know we'll all be fired with you," Dorset added.

Rick looked from one to the next. Finally, Simms just shrugged. "Lesson for the day, kid: the spy game will make us all heroes and traitors in equal turns," he said. "Let's just hope today's not your day to fall on the bad side of that equation."

It was a bit pessimistic, but it wasn't without merit. One man's hero was another man's villain. Spies were often terrorists in foreign lands, but also the unsung heroes of their homes.

But riding along in horseback, with no backup, Rick had to wonder. Dorset was sullen and Malick was wearing pink sunscreen and Simms just looked exhausted. They didn't seem like anyone's heroes.

-o-

Dorset sent Malick to make first contact.

"He's got the personality of a toadstool," Simms griped. "You're going to get us shot at. Again."

Dorset shrugged, watching Malick ride down, note in hand. "He's a human weapon," he said.

Rick wrinkled his nose, watching as Malick gave the men the note. And then proceeded to be pulled off his horse and slammed into the side of the car. "Human weapon?"

"He's picking his moment," Dorset said.

"Because it's not like we can make things easy," Simms said.

It wasn't the first time on this mission that Rick had felt skeptical. He had a feeling it wouldn't be the last.

-o-

They got hauled into camp, held at gunpoint and forced to their knees.

Rick's heart was pounding, throat constricted. He leaned close to Dorset. "Was this part of the plan?" he said.

Dorset shrugged. "If I say yes?"

"Then it's a bad plan!" Rick hissed back.

"I suppose it'd be ironic for me to ask you to trust me," Dorset replied.

"You think!"

-o-

If this was a plan, it wasn't one that Rick particularly liked. These men weren't happy and his teammates were being difficult and were woefully unprepared. They were going to get their limbs chopped off and possibly have their brains splattered before they even had a chance to check on the hostage they were trying to rescue.

And Dorset was going to let it happen. Simms and Malick looked wary, but didn't move.

For all their talk, for all their effort going behind the director's back, they were acting like rote amateurs. And Rick would know because he_was _a rote amateur.

Truth be told, he didn't really care if they got taken hostage by an armed faction in Africa. But he would really rather that not be the end to his first auspicious week in the CIA.

So he took a breath, and did what he had to do.

-o-

He had to admit, his plan wasn't much better than Dorset's. After outing himself as a CIA agent, he proceeded to demonstrate his grit by eating a scorpion.

Dorset looked disgusted; Malick was horrified. Simms laughed, clapping his hands. "What to go, kid," he said as he crunched the thing with his teeth and felt it scrape down his throat. "Way to go."

-o-

Adrenaline was a funny thing. It could make him divulge his cover; it could make him eat a scorpion. It could even give him the insight to look at his teammates as possibly less than annoying pains in the ass.

Because there was something there. He saw them back at the camp; he saw them look over the hostages, do the head count, and_ care._ They came for one man, but not one of them wanted to leave without every last person in that camp.  
_  
That _was why Rick had become a spy. To do the job that no one else would do, to do it because it was the right thing to do. And for the first time since he joined the ODS a week ago, he actually believed his teammates might believe the same.

They hid it well, of course. With indifference and cynicism and snark, but he was starting to wonder if it was there.

Around the campfire, Rick was feeling magnanimous. Granted, he was hyped up on adrenaline, but he wasn't going to fight it. Not after his day.

Across from him, Simms eyed him, a little curious, mostly wary. "You ate a scorpion," he said. "That was pretty stupid."

Rick shrugged. "Not as stupid as you think."

"So you often engage in eating poisonous creatures?" Malick asked. "I may have to reconsider your worth as an operative."

Rick rolled his eyes. "No, I'm just saying that they're not_ that _poisonous," he said. "I recognized the species. They're actually a delicacy in some parts of the world."

Malick looked vaguely disappointed.

Next to Rick, Dorset sighed. "You're starting to make me rethink my policy on trust," he said, almost begrudgingly.

Rick lifted his eyebrows. "Really?" he asked, feeling his spirits buoy.

"Eh, just a little," Dorset said. "You could have let me lose my arm back there, but you didn't. So I think you deserve a little something for that."

Rick paused, waiting for more.

Dorset glared at Malick. "That was your cue."

Malick glowered. "Do I have to?"

Dorset pursed his lips.

Malick sighed, digging in his pocket. "Fine," he said, tossing something small toward Rick. "But I want it on the record that I don't think he deserves these yet."

Instinctively, Rick caught it and looked. "The pictures."

"Consider it a thank you," Dorset said. "But just know we don't need pictures to own you."

Simms laughed callously. "And can't you just feel the love," he muttered. He pulled out a flask. He looked at it for a moment, a little longingly. Then he glanced toward Rick. "Here," he said, tossing it across the fire. "Something to get the taste of scorpion out of your mouth."

Rick caught it, and he couldn't help it if he beamed. He'd gotten the pictures. They didn't trust him completely but they did trust him, and they'd had a civil conversation in which Rick didn't want to throttle them.

And now Simms was sharing drinks.

This was good.

This was really good.

Standing, he nodded toward them. "You guys try to hide it, but you're not as bad as you let on," he said. "You have the best intentions. You're bad for the sake of being good."

Simms looked vaguely amused. Malick rolled his eyes.

Rick nodded, persisting. "For the last week, I hated you guys. I thought Higgins was right to want to have you fired," he said, unscrewing the flask. "But now. Now I'm beginning to think you guys are the ones who are right."

With that, he took a drink, long and hard. It was bitter and harsh and burned down his throat. "Wow," he said, trying not to choke. "That's some good—"

As consciousness left him, Rick felt himself falling and he realized maybe he'd spoken too soon.

-o-

When Rick came to, he had sand in his face and men with guns above him.

His words of praise were still on his tongue, thick in his throat, and the feeling of betrayal was stronger than ever as the darkness claimed him once again.

-o-

Then: a voice. Disembodied, echoing,_ loud._

"Kid. Are you awake yet?"

Rick startled.

"Seriously, we're kind of on a tight schedule here, so if you could, you know,_ stop _being unconscious. We didn't drug you_ that _much."

Just like that, Rick was alert, on his feet and grabbing at his ear. He could feel it now – the pressure on his eardrum, tickling at his consciousness – but he could get his finger in far enough to get it out.

"I hope you're not trying to get the damn thing out, are you? Because you'd have better luck escaping out of a heavily armed compound without getting blown to shreds."

Rick's jaw tightened and he recognized Simms' voice. "What did you guys do to me?"

"Slipped something into your drink," Simms replied.

"Yeah, I figured that," Rick snapped. "But why?"

"Because Higgins is a bureaucratic son of a bitch who plays by the book," Simms said. "He won't budge for a half-French bastard, but for an agent in peril? He'll send in the troops. Literally."

Rick's first instinct was to yell and sulk. But there was some validity to the idea. In fact, there was a lot of validity to it. They had more hostages than they could feasibly spring without backup and the only backup they'd get on an unsanctioned mission was one that involved extreme peril and a man trapped behind enemy lines.

All in all, it was a plan Rick might have endorsed – had he been consulted prior to being offered up as the sacrificial lamb.

"And you guys couldn't have told me that?" Rick asked, feeling genuinely hurt. And stupid. Mostly stupid. Stupid for thinking these men could be trusted, that they could be _good. _That he could be_ one _of them.

"Eh," Simms said. "Less fuss this way."

Frustrated, Rick was distracted by the sounds of aircraft approaching. He went to the door, looking up as a plane swooped low, drenching the encampment.

"It's also very important you try and not get wet," Dorset interjected over the line.

Rick looked at his wet arms, feeling the drops in his hair. "Why?" he asked. "What happens if you get wet?"

"You know that baptism by fire we talked about?" Simms asked. "Get ready, kiddo. Because here it comes."

There was a flash of light and a zap and Rick's body tensed, the electrical current stiffening his legs and his arms and his head and for the second time that night, everything went dark.

-o-

This time, when he came to, his limbs were stiff and his head ached. Before he could get his bearings, he was being hoisted to his feet. He wavered, worried he might fall, but a strong hand steadied him.

Rick blinked, focusing on Simms, right in front of him.

"Bit of a jolt there, huh?" he asked, a small smile quirking his lips.

Rick furrowed his brow. It almost sounded like Simms cared, and he was treating Rick with actual concern. Almost in contrast to the fact that he had been the one to drug Rick, ditch him, and then electrocute him.

Simms laughed, easing his grip just enough to let Rick stand on his own. "You think you're ready to earn your paycheck?"

Rick blinked again, noticing now that Dorset and Malick were there, readying the hostages. Dorset came back toward them. "We don't have a lot of time before the effects wear off," he said, glancing at Rick. "You good?"

Rick nodded, his tongue still too big to use.

"Good," Dorset said with surprisingly little condescension or fuss. "There are too many hostages to take together. You and Malick will take those who are able to walk; Simms and I will handle those in need of more medical attention. Can you do that?"

In actuality, that was a question worth considering. His ears were ringing, his entire head buzzing. His limbs felt strangely disconnected from his body and he was pretty sure that the effects of the sedative were still making him groggy.

But, the mission. Rescuing the hostages. Helping people. Doing the right thing.

Could Rick do that.

He nodded, resolute. "Yeah," he said. "I'm good to go."

Malick came up alongside, a few hostages in tow. "Then I suggest we move," he said.

Dorset nodded and Simms patted Rick on the shoulder before they all got back to work.

-o-

It was tense. They were, after all, still in an enemy compound with mere minutes before bad guys started getting up and firing indiscriminately at them. They were also in the middle of a desert and while an evac was coming, the open sands would make them easy pickings if they didn't move.

So they moved.

The ODS had seemed disjointed in the office, unprofessional and with questionable intentions, but their focus in the field was unparalleled. Dorset worked carefully, lifting injured hostages while Simms gently guided them out the door. Malick was still gruff, but he herded the hostages into a protective formation, leading them out of the camp with due attention both to the state of those in his protection as well as the stirring combatants in the camp.

In all, there was compassion and concern and skill.

Like the kind of spies Rick had imagined working with.

Like the kind of spies Rick wouldn't mind working with.

Like the kind of spies Rick might aspire to be.

-o-

Until the gunfire started.

And Casey ran away.

There Rick was, with hostages in the desert, while angry, armed terrorists came after him.

And when Rick yelled for surrender, it felt like the biggest betrayal yet.

-o-

When Casey came back and incapacitated the terrorists, his eyes narrowed on Rick. "I heard your doubts," he said. "Next time, you won't live to repeat them."

Rick stared at the downed men and thought that wouldn't be a problem. Because this team would use him and abuse him, but he was starting to think that they'd never leave a mission – or him – to be compromised.

Even if they hated to admit it.

Which was okay. Rick sort of hated to admit it, too.

-o-

On the plane ride back, Rick thought. He thought about his team. That was what they were, after all. Higgins appointed him to be a mole, but somewhere between eating scorpions and running through the desert, these men had become his team. They were difficult and hard to understand; they were cold and probably dangerous. They manipulated and lied and broke rules.

And they'd been damn big heroes when it counted. They had used him – but for the greater good. They had defied orders – to get the job done when no one else would have.

Rick watched them. Casey genuinely disliked people, but he'd saved Rick's life – and the lives of the hostages. Michael was cool and calculating, but he'd hatched the only plot that could have worked to salvage everything. Simms was tired and aloof, but he'd been there, every step of the way.

They worked together, somehow. They were a team of contradictions, the best and the worst Rick could even conceive. They knew each other, understood each other, functioned with a frighteningly unspoken bond that suggested years of honing and countless trial. Yet, there was something incomplete about them. Something not quite right. Even if the dissonance was noticeable, Rick couldn't say what was missing.

But as he nodded off to sleep, he wondered if it was worth sticking around to find out.

-o-

When Higgins called him into the office, Rick wasn't sure what he was going to say. Truthfully, he wasn't sure if he was going to be fired. Higgins had been fairly clear in his directive and instead of following orders Rick had subverted them and trusted the very men he was supposed to help control.

It made him a bad mole.

He hoped it might make him a good spy. Even if for only one mission.

"They're sullen, secretive and sometimes scary," Rick said. "But they're good spies. And I think that's what matters."

The look on Higgins face said enough: it wasn't the right answer. It was exactly the _wrong _answer, and Rick had probably just signed his own damn pink slip.

Instead, the older man's face pinched and he waved his hand in the air. "That will be all, Mr. Martinez."

Rick stared. "I'm not fired?"

"No," Higgins said, almost amused. "You are now permanently assigned to the ODS."

It was a punishment, of course.

Rick had to wonder if it might be a blessing.

-o-

"Someone leaked the report of our mission to the White House," Malick informed him tersely. "It highlighted your special contributions."

Rick was almost too surprised to think. It wasn't that Higgins wanted to keep him around; it was that he couldn't fire him. Because someone had protected him.

Someone like three difficult, obtuse spies.

"Thank you," Rick said finally.

"Don't," Malick snapped. "We didn't leak it."

Rick frowned. "Then who?"

Dorset sighed. "Beats us," he said. "But it looks like we're stuck with you."

Simms smiled, a little grim. "And you're stuck with us."

Sitting down, he pulled his chair closer to his desk, and thought maybe that wasn't so bad.

-o-

In the elevator, he ran into Fay. Then, he realized,_ Fay._

"You leaked the report," he said.

She adjusted herself primly, pressing her lips together. "So?"

"So," Rick said. "Thank you."

She eyed him carefully. "It wasn't just for you."

Rick shook his head. "Then who?"

She tucked an errant hair behind her ear. "The ODS is good," she said. "And despite my difficulties with Michael, I still want what's best for them. They're not controlling bastards just for the fun of it. Not most of the time, anyway."

"Then why?"

She shrugged. "Spy work is dangerous," she said. "You win some and you lose some. The ODS has won a lot."

"And the ones they've lost?"

Her smile was sad as she looked at him. "Hurt more than most."

She cared. About the ODS. About him.

She was a good person. Michael was right to protect; she was right to fight against it. If the ODS had taught Rick anything, it was to go against the rules and do what needed to be done.

"Do you want to couple up?" he blurted.

Her mouth twitched into a grin. "I thought you'd never ask."

-o-

They skipped dinner and went straight home. Rick was unbuttoning her blouse, lowering her to the couch when the light went on.

Rick looked up. Right at Carson Simms.

Simms snickered. "You've got balls, kid," he said. "Sleeping with the boss' ex? Not even something a bastard like me might try."

Across the room, another light went on and Malick was at his kitchen table, Dorset in his chair.

Fay sat up, adjusting herself and blushing. "Like you'd get very far," she replied.

"Even you have standards, Fay," Dorset said. He looked at Rick. "Though questionable ones."

She smiled coldly. "I did marry you after all."

Rick gaped, his shock giving way to frustration. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Got a lead on a mission," Dorset said. "Drug runners in Cambodia. We need to go now, though, or we'll miss our window of opportunity."

The frustration was palpable but the carrot being dangled was tempting.

A mission.

Rick liked sex. He liked Fay.

But Rick had been training to be a spy all his life.

"What's our cover?" he asked, a little cautious.

Fay sighed, but Michael smirked. "Organic coffee producers," he said.

Malick inclined his head toward a bag on the table. "I took the liberty of packing for you," he said. "But you'll have to pack your own unmentionables. I make a habit of never going through another man's underwear without explicit invitation."

Rick frowned.

"Besides," Carson said, patting him on the shoulder. "You're forgetting we own you."

"But I thought you gave me the pictures," Rick said.

Fay rolled her eyes.

Dorset inclined his head. "You didn't think we gave you our_ only _copy, did you?" he said.

"But—"

"You can't beat us, kid," Simms said, almost in commiseration, almost in regret. "You might as well join us."

That wasn't exactly an overwhelming invitation. So Rick wasn't sure what it said about him that, for once, it was actually enough.


	3. SECTION TWO

A/N: For those who may be missing Billy, I really couldn't write a fic without him, so don't worry. He's not here yet but hopefully it'll be clear why I had to do it this way :) Thanks!  
**  
SECTION TWO  
**  
Rick became a member of the ODS.

He went on missions; he sat in on briefings. He did intelligence analysis; he filed reports. He sat at his desk, talked to his teammates, did what he had to do.

And yet, Rick hadn't quite_ become _a member of the ODS. The title was there, and he sat with them in an office, but he wasn't one of them. He started conversations and Dorset kept reading, Malick didn't look up from his computer and Simms just looked bored. He made suggestions that they only half entertained before sending him on foolish errands around the Agency that Rick wasted half the day on before he realized their pointlessness.

They ate lunch together, but no one talked about anything. Rick brought cookies one day and instead of eating them, they sent them down to the lab for analysis.

"I never accept baked goods from strangers," Malick explained.

"But I'm on the team!"

"It's a technicality," Dorset said. "Besides, oatmeal raisin? Really?"

"It's my mother's recipe," he said.

"You could consider it a compliment," Simms suggested. "We think you're smart enough to bake with simple poisons."

"But I'm _on the team,_" Rick said. "Isn't that what teammates do? Talk and share?"

"That sounds like a slumber party," Dorset said.

"It sounds like torture," Malick interjected.

"Your name may be on that desk," Simms said. "But that doesn't mean you're one of us yet, kid."

-o-

Rick persisted. He worked harder, performed better. He watched his teammates, looking for subtle shifts, unconscious tells.

All he learned was that his team took their anonymity seriously.

So he tried a new approach. If they didn't think he fit in, he'd make himself at home until they believed him. He brought a box of things and set them up, displaying his little league baseball, his prayer card, and the other trinkets he liked best from home.

As he organized, he noticed they were staring at him. "What?" he asked.

"Personal effects?" Simms asked. "Really?"

Rick shrugged. "Why not?"

"Because it exposes you to potential compromise," Dorset said.

"The only three with access to this office consistently are you three," Rick reminded them.

Malick's eyes narrowed. Simms chuffed.

Dorset said, "Exactly."

"If I can't trust you, who can I trust?" Rick asked in exasperation.

"Finally," Malick said. "You're starting to ask the right questions."

-o-

They could say what they wanted. Rick still set up his things, arranging them just so. But no matter where they put them, things just looked out of place. The baseball didn't fit; the prayer card wouldn't stand up. The photos were too conspicuous.

He tried not to think about the irony. How his things didn't fit this desk.

How he might not fit this job.

-o-

The field was easier. Overseas, they worked with skill and precision. Rick offered to go down the hole, but Malick brushed right past him.

"I said I'll go," Rick repeated, more vigorously now.

Michael eyed him as Casey unraveled the rope.

"New guy doesn't call the shots," Simms told him. "Malick's the self-important bastard with a invincibility complex. He goes down. You stay up here and show us how well you can twiddle your thumbs, okay?"

-o-

It wasn't okay. Not that Rick had any say in it. When the tank came to life, Malick didn't hesitate, jamming his gun in the barrel, already scaling it in fighting stance when the pirates came out with their hands up.

Mission accomplished.

And they all went home alive.

-o-

Rick spent the next few days in training. When he finally caught the guys in the office, he asked them about La Roche.

"Bastard's getting away," Dorset said.

"What?" Rick asked.

Malick glared. "Apparently he has a deal that the DOJ can't undo," he said.

"So that's it?" Rick pushed, a little shocked.

Dorset shrugged. "That's it."

Rick waited, expecting some inevitable solution to be forthcoming. "We're not going to do anything? We went into Africa, no questions asked."

Dorset looked at Malick. Malick looked at Simms.

Simms sighed. "There were a lot of questions asked," he said. "We just didn't ask them from you."

Rick furrowed his brow. "So, what, this isn't important?" he said. "He's selling weapons. That kill people. _Innocent _people."

"Risk assessment," Dorset interjected. "We break the rules when we can be sure we all come home alive."

"But risk is part of the job," Rick argued. "We put our lives on the line so other people don't have to."

"Noble," Malick said. "And stupid. There are risks worth taking; then there's suicide. We practice the former and avoid the latter."

Rick gaped.

Simms gave him a commiserating smile. "It's called staying alive, kid," he said. "If you die with your ideals, that's well and good. But you're still dead."

"We want La Roche to go down," Dorset said.

"We just don't intend to stake our lives or our careers on it," Malick finished.

It was calm; it was logical. Which was why it didn't make any sense at all. In the short time Rick had known the ODS, they hadn't exactly been slow to act or reticent in their approach. They were reckless and fearless and not the kind of men to sit in an office when they could be doing something that _mattered. _

"La Roche has a larger network than you can imagine," Simms said. "If we poke that hornet's nest without DOJ backup, we're screwed. Or we're dead."

"And we're opting for neither," Dorset said.

Rick stared.

That was that.

La Roche would get away. The weapons would be delivered. The ODS had done everything right, and somehow it felt incredibly wrong.

-o-

"You know," Adele said on the way out. She smiled at him in that way, that suggestive way that made him think she might want something. But his instincts on these things weren't as good as he thought, so he smiled and listened. "I'm kind of surprised the ODS dropped this whole La Roche thing."

Rick's shoulders slumped glumly. "We had no jurisdiction."

"I know," she said. "The CIA doesn't operate in US borders. It's kind of an annoying little sticking point, isn't it?"

"I keep thinking there had to be a way…" he said. "Honestly, I'm a little disappointed."

"I know, right?" she asked. "I mean, the ODS goes against so many orders but follows this one?"

"I can't trust them with a lot of things, but I always thought I could trust them to do the right thing," Rick admitted.

She reached out, squeezing his arm just slightly. "They're just people," she said. "Playing it safe. And you know, if you need someone to trust, there's always me."

Rick couldn't help but brighten. "You mean that?"

She shrugged. "Sure," she said. "If you ever feel like they're not doing what they should do – or doing too much, for that matter – just let me know. And I'll do what I can to help you out."

He stared at her, daring to hope. "You'd do that for me?"

A smile played on her lips. "For Rocket Rick?" she asked suggestively. "Anything."

-o-

When his team went home, Rick stayed late. He thought about packing his belongings, taking the entire box back home, but decided against it. His teammates were probably right – maybe it would open it up to compromise – but he always wondered if that was the point. The _value. _

So Rick rearranged the things, put the picture of his mother next to his computer, positioning the baseball from his peewee glory days on the other end. He lined up the trinkets, one by one, wiping off the surface of his desk as he went.

The desk was as old as everything else he'd been given, worn and used. The surface was scuffed, errant blue pen stains and inexplicable dings. Part of the surface was chipped – some by accident, some from what appeared to be purposeful carving. The pattern had no purpose as far as Rick could tell, but it was intricate – someone had spent some time with it.

He took the other things – the picture of Plotkin's dog and the other effects – and opened up one of the unused drawers. He'd arranged the top two with the various office supplies and used one of the bottom ones for filing, but there was still space he hadn't filled. He shoveled the other man's possessions inside, lingering when he saw the newspaper.

Pulling it out, he looked at it curiously, thinking at first maybe it was from a mission file that he'd just misplaced. But the paper was old – yellowed and curled. It crinkled, brittle, as he unfolded, to look at the date, which was over three years ago.

Frowning, Rick flipped through it, turning it back to where the creases had been forged. The comics – and the crossword.

The crossword was half done, scrawled answer in blocky handwriting in blue pen. The slant suggested someone left handed, and the slight flourish was indicative of a more artistic type.

He had Plotkin's chair and effects, and clearly he had someone's desk. Someone who was left handed and liked crosswords. And probably someone who vandalized CIA property without much thought.

That didn't tell Rick much, though, which was probably more apt than he wanted to admit. Apparently working with the ODS was a mysterious legacy, one of secrets and shadows, of anonymity and depersonalization. No one wanted to compromise themselves; no one wanted to take a risk that might cost too much.

So Rick was left with an abused desk, a picture of someone else's dog and an old crossword puzzle.

And three teammates he might never figure out.

-o-

They went to talk to an asset.

Rather, his teammates talked to an asset.

Rick got chased by a dog.

"You knew that would happen, didn't you?" Rick asked in accusation, sulking as he tried to calm his breath and ignore the flush in his cheeks.

"And you responded so predictably," Casey said with some satisfaction.

Rick scowled. "I thought we were teammates."

"When wild dogs are involved, all bets are off the table," Simms said.

"Besides," Michael said. "Trust is one thing. Going the extra mile for someone is another. You still have a ways to go."

And Rick glowered the whole way home.

-o-

The asset had been unsavory, but the intel looked promising. Michael managed to convince Fay into getting them a mission.

To Russia.

When Simms found out, he wasn't happy.

"Russia, man? Really?" he asked. "Of all the places to stick our necks out, that's pretty low on my list."

"The lead is solid," Michael insisted.

"We need a good test of our skills anyway," Malic said, shrugging.

"But it's _Russia,_" Simms said. "Besides the fact that it's like sub-zero there all the time, they're not exactly your most friendly patrons when traveling."

"We're looking at stolen plutonium," Michael said. "We have a verified lead. There are risks but I think the overall benefit is too palpable."

"You're asking to get eaten by wolves," Simms argued.

Dorset shrugged. "We're spies," he said. "There's going to be some risk. Don't like that, don't come. Until then, start getting ready. We fly out in two days."

With that Dorset left, Malick not far behind. Simms sighed.

Rick studied him for a moment. He looked tired, though that was pretty typical. In Rick's short time at the Agency, Simms had rarely looked anything but. "Eaten by wolves?" he asked.

Simms looked at him, laughing bitterly. "I forget how young you are," he muttered.

"I don't get it."

"Of course you don't," Simms muttered. Then he sighed. "Come on, then."

-o-

When they stood in front of the memorial wall, Rick wasn't sure what to think.

Simms collected a breath and let it out. "This place is depressing as hell, but you should really understand it."

"These stars represents operatives who were lost in the line of duty," Rick said.

"That's right," Simms said. "And one of these stars is for some poor schmuck who was flying surveillance over Russia in the Cold War. He got shot down and captured. The Russians pinned him as CIA right away, but the Agency wasn't about to admit that. They disavowed him. And you know what the bastards told the family?"

Rick blinked.

"Eaten by wolves," Simms said. "They told them that their kid was_ eaten by wolves _when really he just wasted away in some damn gulag. His own_ government _did nothing for him. Russia's no place for spies. At least not ones that want to survive. So I'm all for the greater good, kid, but in Russia? It's every damn man for himself as far as I'm concerned because I don't want to be the next unlucky son of a bitch memorialized as a star instead of getting to live out my life."

With that, Simms left, leaving Rick looking at the wall.

Eaten by wolves.

Every man for himself.

As if this mission didn't make him nervous enough.

-o-

At his desk, Rick studied his cover. He studied his mission. If it was every man for himself then Rick was going to be prepared.

He settled in, the desk warm and comfortable as he worked.

He was going to be ready.

-o-

Ready or not, Rick couldn't control everything. His cover was perfect; his delivery was flawless. One screwed up phone number, though, and it was all on the line.

He was sitting in a Russian police station, his cover ready to fall apart. If the police officer made one phone call, government officials would descend and that would be that.

Disavowed.

Eaten by wolves.

Rick was reconciling himself to this fact; trying to understand the idea of life in a Russian prison. Tried to think about ways to escape, ways to defend himself, to_ get out. _

Ways to hold his head high as he faced a life of hard labor, alone and cold and abandoned.

So when Malick showed up, Rick was genuinely surprised.

"You came back," he said, knowing he should be grateful but too confused to know how to express it.

Malick sneered. "The one thing I hate more than green rookies is Russians," he said curtly. "Besides, it reflects poorly on the team if we leave one of our own behind."

Rick nodded, brow furrowed. "Thanks for clarifying that," he said. "I'd hate to think that you cared."

"I came, didn't I?" Malick snapped.

Between Malick and the proverbial wolves, Rick was suddenly unsure which one was actually better.

-o-

When Dorset and Simms went back in, Rick began to think they'd never come out.

Malick didn't say anything, but his jaw went stiff. He thought it, too.

"I'm going back in," Rick decided.

Malick raised an eyebrow.

Rick shrugged. "You did it for me."

Eyes narrowed, Malick nodded. "Fine," he said. "I'll stall the bus. Just try to hurry, okay? We only have so many damn miracles left on this mission."

-o-

When they got back, Rick settled into his chair, looked out over his desk. It was familiar, comfortable.

He glanced at his teammates. "I want to say thanks," he said.

They all looked at him. Malick arched an eyebrow. "We want you to shut up," he said.

"Seriously," Rick said. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

Malick looked profoundly disquieted. Dorset exchanged a look with Simms.

"Sometimes I wonder if I belong here at all," Rick admitted. "I mean, this isn't even my chair. And this desk belonged to someone else, too, didn't it? Did he eat a proverbial bullet, too?"

It was a joke, but none of them laughed. Dorset paled and Malick's face went blank. Simms face was taut but he said, "Something like that."

Rick swallowed uncomfortably. "Well, still," he continued awkwardly. "Maybe we could go get drinks. Celebrate the end of the mission."

Dorset was on his feet. He shook his head. "We had a long flight," he said.

Malick wasn't far behind. "I have a feeling your drinking habits would be too pitiful to watch."

Even Simms got to his feet. "You're still here, kid," he said. "Don't go looking for more."

They left, leaving Rick alone at his desk. It was weird, to be rescued. Just to be abandoned all over again.

He rocked back, fingering the nicks and grooves on his desk surface. He was still here. He tried to find comfort in that.

Comfort in anything at all.

-o-

On his way out, Rick walked around toward the memorial wall, just like he did every night. He paused, slinking back, because his team was there. Every last one. Standing. Staring.

Malick shook his head and left without a sound. Dorset sighed, patting Simms on the shoulder before leaving, too. Simms lingered longest, looking at the stars, looking long and hard before he walked on.

When they were gone, Rick rounded the corner and lingered, taking them in again. Each star was the same; none of them had any real meaning to Rick.

He could only wonder what meaning they had to his teammates.

He could only wonder if he'd ever figure it out.

-o-

Rick talked the UN Ambassador from North Korea off the ledge when his career was going down in flames.

In the aftermath, when Rick realized the promise he'd just made and all its implications, Rick felt like maybe he had joined the man up there.

Still, the man was willing to risk his life for his wife. With Higgins ultimatum, Rick had to wonder what he was willing to risk his for.

He had a sneaking suspicion he was about to find out.

-o-

His team was not thrilled at the prospect of a mission in North Korea.

"First, Russia, now North Korea," Simms said. "Do you actually have a death wish? Do you _want _to go captured, disavowed, tortured and ultimately killed?"

Rick shrugged, sheepish.

Dorset rolled his eyes. "I'll admit, this one isn't my first choice either," he said. "But I think we've got a pretty decent strategy."

"North Korea isn't as bad as they make it out to be," Malick offered. "I mean, sure they'll execute you and tell the world that you've gone on an extended vacation in the South China Sea, but first they have to catch you. And in a state filled with totalitarian lackeys, that's much easier said than done."

"We have the passport for Mrs. Song," Rick said. "It shouldn't be too hard to mix it in with ours when we arrive, so she can easily fly out with us as an American citizen."

"Right," Carson said skeptically. "You're just leaving out the part where we get killed because we don't have any viable reason to get _into_that backwater hellhole."

"We're working on that," Dorset said.

Simms scoffed. "I still can't believe we're actually thinking about this."

"I know," Dorset said. "And I'm not throwing us out there lightly. But we're spies. I don't like the risks that go with that, but they're part of our job. They always have been, and we're all still here because we've decided that the risk is worth it."

Simms' face was tight, jaw working. He pursed his lips, eyes locked with Michael. To the side, Malick was equally tense, and the three of them seemed to be sharing a moment Rick couldn't quite pinpoint.

He didn't know how long these three had been working together; he didn't know what kind of missions they'd been on. But he could tell, just from watching, that they had a history. And one that had its ups and downs.

Maybe more downs than ups, if the tension in the room was any indication.

Finally, Simms sighed. "Fine," he said. "But I think this is a mistake."

Michael smiled wryly. "Well, at least we know this won't be the first mistake we've ever made."

As if that was somehow supposed to make Rick feel better.

-o-

For all the angst, the mission went surprisingly well.

Until Mrs. Song wanted to smuggle her sister and her family out as well.

Rick expected Michael to say no, to put the kibosh on and just leave.

But when he laid out a plan to smuggle them all, to make a run for the Chinese border on a little used crossing, Rick was shocked.

Carson just laughed. "We're going from stupid to downright insane," he said.

Dorset didn't deny it. "We've done this sort of thing before," he said.

Simms cocked his head. "Years, Michael," he said. "It's been years. And we all know how that turned out."

Rick frowned, not understanding the reference. Before he could ask, Casey interjected. "The whole point of mistakes is that we learn from that. We can't coddle ourselves forever. This is an acceptable risk. If we can't do this, then maybe we should let Higgins have our badges and get the hell out of the spy game."

Simms threw up his hands. "Gee, who am I to argue with genius like this!" he exclaimed.

"Carson—" Michael said.

Simms shook his head. "We're not going there, Michael," he said, the humor gone, his eyes deadly serious. "Let's just get this mission done with and go home."

It was agreement, terse as it was. And Rick wasn't sure what bothered him more: smuggling people out of North Korea or the mysterious past of his teammates that seemed to be more pressing than ever.

If he tackled the first, he thought maybe he could deal with the latter.

When they were safe on American soil.

-o-

As they scoped out the border crossing, Rick thought. About Mrs. Song being willing to die for her husband. About Mr. Song being willing to die for his wife. That kind of sacrifice – the lengths people went for people they cared about.

"It makes me think," Rick said, blowing into his hands in the cold night. "If there's someone I would die for."

Simms shifted, hiking his collar up higher. Casey gave him a discerning look.

Rick shrugged. "Julie Reins."

"Who?" Simms asked with a scowl.

"Julie Reins," Rick repeated, smiling now. "I dated her in high school. Her dad was a bit of a racist but she was…amazing. I'd have traded my life for hers in an instant. No questions asked."

In the night, there was stillness. Rick looked at Simms, who diverted his gaze. He looked at Malick.

"What about you guys?" Rick prompted. "Anyone you'd give your life for?"

Simms almost flinched. Casey's face went hard.

"We don't do sentimentality," Malick finally retorted. "Let's just focus on the mission."

With that, he stalked off toward Michael. Simms seemed to be thinking. He looked at Rick. "You can say things like that and it's all well and good," he said. "But things are different in the moment. When there's a gun to your head, when someone's going to pull the trigger – your ideals don't mean crap, kid. None of your good intentions will ever matter. When you're drowning – actually,_ literally _drowning, with the water over your head and lungs bursting for air – you always save yourself. Always."

It was so stark, so plain, that Rick didn't even know what to say. He just watched as Simms retreated down the road.

And Rick felt more alone than ever.

-o-

Afterward, when the Songs were reunited, Rick looked up Julie Reins. She was married and had dogs and two kids. She looked different, older and aged, and Rick had to wonder if she was the girl he remembered. If she'd still be worth a bullet.

He tapped his fingers on his desk, feeling the familiar grooves, unconsciously fingering the doodled engravings as he chewed his lip. It felt good to be back, to be sitting here, and with another successful mission, Rick had proven himself – to Higgins, to his teammates.

Looking up, he glanced at said teammates. Simms was bent over at his desk, scratching something onto a piece of paper. Michael was reading while Casey clicked at his computer.

Rick had to wonder if he'd die for them. If they'd die for him. They'd come back for him in Russia. They followed him into North Korea.

But their reticence was palpable. And Simms' words haunted him.  
_  
You always save yourself. Always.  
_  
Rick could only hope that he'd never find out.

-o-

In truth, it was a tenuous thing, Rick's job at the Agency. He was part of the ODS, although they still treated him like some gullible rookie. Which, to be fair, maybe he was, but they didn't have to treat him that way all the time. And Higgins was still after him about unsanctioned missions – not to spy on his teammates necessarily, but to just be aware.

And Rick was aware. It was hard_ not _to be aware when his team had this odd habit of carting him off at a moment's notice to obscure destinations around the world, chasing trails of missions that Rick hadn't even been properly briefed for.

Rick still couldn't figure it out, which missions they deemed acceptable and which ones they didn't. There seemed to be a method to their madness, and even though they ran around like rogue spies most of the time, they show strange displays of restraint, backing out when the crime lord got too big or when the situation required too many people to be split up and isolated.

So he hadn't really been surprised when they showed up to take him to South America. And he'd been even less surprised when he found out that the mission involved catching criminals with little violent intervention.

Really with everything in place, Rick had to think, what could possibly go wrong?

-o-

A mole.

Someone had slipped a few state secrets out with the garbage, and now the entire CIA was on lockdown. Proper procedure was all well and good until Rick realized that they couldn't get back down to South America.

Which was how he ended up breaking into a secure room, rooting through his fellow operatives' possessions, trying to identify the guilty party.

At least it explained why his teammates were obsessed with keeping their desks neutral; his team was frighteningly adept at sorting through someone's life from a few knickknacks alone.

"No wonder Margaret always makes me sneeze," Carson moped. "Cats. Everywhere _cats._ She's literally a crazy cat lady, and I'm supposed to be grateful she's on our side."

"Focus," Michael said. "Unless she needs to up her investment in kitty litter, I think we're okay."

Rick moved through the desks, trying to note the differences. Pictures of kids and families, of vacations and exotic destinations.

And then—

Rick cocked his head, reaching out to pick up a frame.

"How much do you figure these guys make?" he asked.

Dorset shrugged. "You thinking of transferring?" he asked. "These schmucks don't make any more than we do."

"And they don't get the free airline miles," Malick added.

"So how does one of them suddenly afford a boat like that?" he asked, turning the frame around.

His team paused, inching closer curiously. "Corwin," Michael said. "That would be unexpected."

"But the evidence supports it," Malick said. "The man has carried his own lunch in for years and I know for a fact he wears subpar clothing. He has no money to spare."

Carson sighed. "Poor bastard," he said. "Can't blame him for wanting what's his."

"But we can blame him for stalling our mission," Michael said. He looked at Rick, nodding in approval. "Good work, Martinez."

Rick was too shocked to reply. There was no condescension. No derision.

It was an actual compliment.

"Should we go dig out our friendly mole?" Malick asked.

Carson looked perturbed. "You don't have to sound so eager about it."

"Traitors are laborious," Malick replied. "Especially if the only reason you sold out is for a boat."

"It could be more than that," Simms said.

"It doesn't matter what it is," Michael said. "What matters is getting this lockdown lifted so we can get back down to South America while there's still a mission left to salvage."

They moved to the door, and Rick hesitated.

Michael turned back to look at him. "You coming?" he asked.

Rick blinked. He put the picture down. "Yeah," he said, and hurried to catch up.

-o-

It was surprisingly easy.

And unsettlingly simple.

Corwin sold out. Took unimportant secrets and sold them to the highest bidder. Not for some greater good, not to protect anyone or anything. But for himself. Because after a long career, he didn't feel like he'd gotten enough out of it.

Afterward, Michael and Casey escorted him away. Carson stayed with Rick and sighed.

"Crazy, huh?" Rick asked. "I can't even imagine doing that. Selling out."

Carson eyed him. "You too good to be tempted?"

Rick nodded readily. "Frankly, yes," he said. "I believe I signed away my rights when I joined the CIA. I agreed to put myself last for the good of the country."

Carson lifted his eyebrows. "That's pretty noble, kid."

"Well, isn't that why you do it?" Rick asked.

With a bitter laugh, Carson got to his feet. "Honestly," he said, shaking his head. "I don't even know anymore."

Rick was surprised. "You don't mean that."

"Wait a few years," Carson advised. "See what this job does to you." He inclined his head, weary face more tired than normal. "Then we'll talk."

-o-

Rick didn't think at the time that maybe he didn't have a few years.

But when he was lying in the back of a van, tourniquet pinched tight over his bloody pants, it struck him that maybe he should have.

It hurt – it _hurt _– and every breath was stunted and painful, sending fresh pain jackknifing through his body as he trembled to keep himself awake.

In the front, Michael was driving, Casey's white knuckles visible to Rick on the center counsel from where he lay. Carson was next to him, checking the tourniquet, his sleeves rolled up and his bloodstained hands stark in the moonlight.

Someone waved a lollipop at him, and Rick's stomach turned. He grimaced. "I don't like candy," he moaned, heart pounding. The simple act of talking made the agony intensify.

"Doesn't matter," Carson said. "A few licks and you'll love everything."

Rick squinted, wondering if the blood loss was bad enough that he was actually delusional or if his team just made less sense than usual.

"It's morphine," Casey explained from the front. "We only have the one, though. So suck slowly."

Rick was thinking about protesting, but then the van hit a bump and his vision dimmed and he didn't protest when Carson shoved the lollipop in his mouth.

-o-

Carson was right.

"This stuff is _amazing,_" Rick said. He laughed. "You guys are amazing. I mean, you put morphine in a lollipop. Who does that?"

"We believe in being prepared," Michael explained.

"You're not just prepared," Rick said. "You're_ brilliant. _I mean, you all pick and choose your missions and you're impossible to actually _like _or_trust _or _whatever,_ but damn. You're_ spies, _you know that? I've worked with you for months now and I know more about the person who owned my desk than I know you."

His voice trailed off and for a moment, he zoned. He thought about his desk, about the grooves and the crossword and the left-handed block print. He snorted, half choking on the lollipop.

He remembered how to move and lifted his hand, taking it out. "Did I mention that this stuff is amazing?"

Carson rolled his eyes. "Once or twice, kiddo."

Rick held it out, watching as his hand waved precariously. "Seriously," he said. "You want a lick?"

He tried to reach out, fumbling as he almost fell off the bench seat. Carson scrambled to catch him and the lollipop wavered precariously close to Michael's ear. Michael batted it away, glancing back as the van veered just for a moment before righting itself.

Carson eased him back and Rick put the lollipop back in his mouth, ready to relax again when Casey shouted, "Michael, look out!"

But it was too late.

The haze thickened and Rick's vision dimmed and it was_ too late._

-o-

Rick came back to the sound of voices.

"You're going to have to try to get it out." That was Michael's proclamation, as straightforward as ever.

"I _can't,_" came Casey's reply, but it was desperate and worried. Not self-assured and cocky; not aloof and indifferent. Like Casey cared. "The bullet is in there deep. He'd bleed out before I got very far."

That sounded less than ideal. Even for the ODS. Especially for the ODS. Rick wasn't sure anymore.

"How far is it to the next town?" Michael asked.

"Fifteen miles."

There was a pause. "I'll go."

"By foot? You'll never make it."

Doubt. Skepticism. Rick knew how Casey felt. All of Michael's plans tended to make Rick feel as though he were going insane by the mere fact that he was too sane to buy into the craziness.

"Some of us spend our workouts doing more than jiujitsu," Michael replied. "I have the stamina."

"But the doctor may not even be there," Casey protested.

Doctor, Rick mused. Why did they need a doctor? Rick should remember…

"You want me to stay here so he can die?" Michael returned harshly.

Dying. The ODS didn't like dying. Rick actually agreed with them on that point.

"It's just a long shot," came Casey's muted reply.

"It's the only shot," Michael said, just as quietly.

A shot. It seemed ironic, but Rick couldn't remember…couldn't think…

"Just," Casey cut off, the word hinging awkwardly, "don't stop."

"Just keep him alive," Michael replied without hesitating.

Alive. Because he'd been shot, Rick remembered. He was shot in the leg and they were in a van in Bolivia and it_ hurt _and his team was worried—

Michael was worried, Casey was scared and Carson was…

Carson was tightening the tourniquet.

The pain flared and Rick sucked in a desperate breath, his whole body trembling. His team had got him out of Russia; they'd sneaked out of North Korea. Sometimes Rick believed they could do the impossible.

But the fear in their voices; the doubt. Maybe not the impossible. Maybe that was why they said no to some missions and yes to others. They couldn't do the impossible, just the improbable. There was a difference; one Rick was starting to learn the hard way.

Something tightened around his leg and he gasped, body tensing before Rick had no choice but to let go.

-o-

Rick's eyes were awake for several minutes before he even realized he was conscious.

"You back with us, kiddo?" Carson asked.

Rick blinked and looked up. Carson was next to him. The interior of the car was dim, but the exhaustion on his face was evident.

And weird.

Though, really, everything was weird.

Things seemed to be half floating, with disconcerting halos of light. When Rick breathed, he could feel his lungs expanding and each contraction felt more frantic than the one before.

He sort of felt like he was dying.

Then again, maybe he_ was _dying, which would explain a lot.

He tried to move, and regretted it, face scrunching with pain. As his vision cleared, Carson shoved the lollipop back in Rick's mouth.

Rick took an involuntary suck and sighed. He could remember now, the mission and the gunshot and the van. He could remember Michael's uncertainty and Casey's fear and more.  
When his eyes opened again, Rick smiled blearily. "I've been shot," he announced.

"That you have," Carson agreed.

"So glad that your stellar mental reasoning skills haven't been compromised," Casey grunted from the front.

Rick just kept smiling because he was used to their lies, and for the first time he could see they weren't lying to him on his account, but theirs. This was why they'd come back for him in Russia. This was why they didn't tell him things – they were protecting themselves.

The best the CIA had to offer and they were their own brand of cowards.

And Rick felt inexplicably proud. Because he was one of them. Not cowards but heroes because maybe real heroes were cowards who did what needed to be done no matter how they felt.

"It's funny," Rick slurred. "This isn't such a bad way to die."

"Dying would be stupid," Casey snapped. "Don't."

"No, if this is it – if this is really it – I'm okay with it," Rick continued, looking up at Carson earnestly. Because he always knew this job was dangerous, but to die serving his country, to die with his teammates there…it wasn't so bad. It had meaning and purpose.

Carson looked back, face pinched, and the shadows highlighting the deep grooves on his face. His jaw worked. "Casey's right," he said. "Dying would be stupid."

The ODS was stupid.

Rick cocked his head, giggling. "You care."

Carson just gave him a quizzical look.

Rick giggled again. "You all _care,_" he said. "You don't want me to die."

"There'd be too much paperwork," Casey said sharply.

But Rick shook his head. "I don't get you guys at all," he continued, because what the hell? It wasn't like he had anything to lose. "You torture me, try to get me fired. You barely tolerate me and never tell me anything. And then you're all scared."

Casey was noticeably quiet from the front, and Rick vaguely wondered if perhaps Casey had floated away into the ever-present, now-purple mist. It seemed perhaps unlikely, but given that Rick was seeing purple mist and that his team was truly concerned about him, the odds were increasing….

Rick stopped that train of thought when he realized he had no idea what he was thinking about at all. Instead he took another suck and breathed out, limbs going loose against the seat, even as Carson held fast to the tourniquet. Rick blinked, eyes struggling to focus.

Carson was watching him, posture guarded, eyes guilty. "You'd be stupid not to be scared," he said. "But you'd be stupid to die, too. Aim for the middle and things should turn out okay." He paused, shrugging. "Or at least not too horribly."

Rick didn't understand but he did, and he rolled the lollipop on his tongue, trying to remember. His mother and his family. His apartment and his car. His desk back at Langley, the scratch marks and the crossword.

These were disparate pieces, but suddenly they all made sense. Everything made sense. His team hated him because they didn't know how to like him, and they were mean so that being nice wouldn't hurt.

And the purple mist was descending and Rick could only breathe, one breath after another as he slipped away.

He aimed for the middle.

And worried it might not be enough.

-o-

In the dark, Rick couldn't feel the pain. The pain was the mist and it surrounded him and he breathed it in, but it wasn't his. Nothing was his. This body, this team, this life. He didn't belong here, not in this van with a bullet in his leg; not in this team of crusty misfits; not in that desk that belonged to someone else.

Maybe leaving would be better. Maybe it would be the thing that made the most sense.

But Carson's grip was steady and Casey's voice wavered in song. Michael came back running and Rick heard them talk.

"We never should have taken him here."

"He's a CIA operative; the risks are part of the job."

"He's nothing but a damn _kid._"

"You've read his file; he's one of the best."

"All the more reason he shouldn't be dying in some backwater hellhole."

"He's not dying."

"Are you so sure about that?"

"I have to think—"

"Because optimism has worked so well for us in the past. I've done this before, Michael. I've done it and I won't do it again. Not again."

"Well I don't know what to tell you, Malick. Because we're here. He's here, and he needs us."

"You guys are both missing the point. Sometimes bad things just happen."

"I can't accept that."

"I won't accept that."

"You may have to."

Michael stopped running. Casey stopped singing.

And Carson let go.

-o-

When Rick woke up in a hospital, he was surprised. Everything hurt vaguely, an ache in his leg and a thick cottony taste in his mouth. Moving was a precarious thing, but he was alive.

And that surprised him a lot.

He was more surprised to see his teammates. Michael was half sprawled in a chair, his head propped up on his hand, a day's worth of stubble on his face. Casey leaned against the wall, standing with his eyes closed, showing no signs of movement. And Carson was in the other chair, legs stretched out and placed on Rick's bed, his head tipped back and his mouth open while he snored.

Rick was alive.

His team was here.

Maybe getting shot wasn't so bad after all.

-o-

They gave him an award. Rick accepted it, blushed for the picture, and hobbled around while people he barely knew offered him congratulations.

In the back of the room, the ODS stood. Clapping and smirking.

That meant more than the rest.

-o-

Back in the office, Rick propped his leg up and winced. Sitting here, back at his desk, suddenly the questions were too much. "Maybe it's not so hard to understand Corwin," he said thoughtfully. "We do this job, we risk our lives, and we get paid almost nothing and never get praised." He looked up at his team. "How do you stay sane?"

"People don't become spies for the attaboys," Michael said.

"And you should never rely on it for emotional satisfaction," Casey added.

Michael rolled his eyes, getting to his feet. "If it's a question of sanity, then you're thinking about it all wrong," he said. "You find the one thing that makes sense and you hold to that, no matter what. Then even when everything else goes off course, at least there's still that guiding you home."

Casey grunted and followed Michael toward the door. "Sentimentality is exhausting. Survival is critical," he said, eyeing Rick carefully. "A lesson I think you know by now."

Carson was conspicuously silent as he got up and joined the others.

Rick sighed, collecting another breath. "I never had the chance to say thank you."

They hesitated, coats half on.

Rick swallowed and continued. "For saving my life," he said.

Casey's face softened just a little.

Michael's mouth quirked into a small smile. "The bet way to stay sane?" he asked. "Remember your team. We all go in; we all go out."

Carson snorted. "If only it were that simple," he muttered.

"This time it was," Michael said. He shrugged. "You coming, kid?"

Rick looked at them, then looked back at his desk. "No," he said. "I'm just going to finish up this paperwork."

"Suit yourself," Casey said. "Just remember we don't get paid overtime."

"Harsh but true," Michael said. "See you in the morning."

With that, they left, Carson ducking out first, followed by Casey and Michael. For a moment, Rick watched the door where they'd left, and thought about what they'd said.  
_  
We all go in; we all go out.  
_  
Brothers in arms, an ideal that wasn't foreign to Rick. But he knew it now, felt it. Lived it.  
_  
If only it were that simple.  
_  
Because nothing was ever simple with the ODS. They were complicated and contradictory and confusing…

And they were still his team.

That meant something now. Rick tapped his fingers on his desk. He didn't quite fit in, but he still belonged. And that was starting to mean everything.


	4. SECTION THREE

A/N: Continued thanks for reading! I am a bit behind on replies - and I will get there soon :)

**SECTION THREE  
**  
After that, things were good. Rick started to enjoy his job. He liked coming to work. He began to understand his teammates' understated and perplexing sense of humor. When they poisoned one of the other translators, Rick figured it couldn't be so bad. When they shoved him into a briefing to secure them a mission in Paris, he figured what the hell. A little French couldn't hurt anyone.

He put up with their antics, tolerated their orders, and sat on a cramped flight to France with them thinking that it was okay because things were_different. _They had saved his life; he was one of them.

Then, things weren't different at all.

"Wait, so you all get to go to dinner and I have to stay here?" Rick asked. His stomach panged – the airline food had been damn near inedible and he was_ starving._

"You have to pay your dues, kid," Simms said.

"I took a bullet in my leg!" Rick protested. "Isn't that enough?"

"Hardly," Casey said derisively. "We saved your life. That means you owe us. By staying here while we enjoy a succulent meal."

"At least this way you won't gain any weight," Michael said. "Fay always says this is less the city of lights and more the city of an extra fifteen pounds."

Simms groaned. Casey shook his head. Michael shrugged.

And Rick stayed in alone.

-o-

It wasn't that his team didn't like him, it was that they still didn't know how what to do with him, Rick decided. They didn't want him to die, but they didn't seem convinced that he had a viable place on the team beyond sitting in a motel room running translations. They allowed him to come along, but Rick got the distinct impression that he was being treated like the tag-along little brother that mommy forced the older boys to humor.

Rick could train; he could obey. He could assert himself; he could plot. None of it mattered.

He was still Rick, the new guy. Rick, the kid. Rick, the guy in the desk they couldn't get rid of but who wasn't supposed to die.

Rick.

To be fair, he didn't always know what he was doing. When the French stormed the motel room, he'd been woefully taken off guard, and he'd been more or less ineffectual except for offering a few translations during a firefight. But given that the suspect hadn't responded and had ended up dead, Rick supposed that didn't mean much.

Still, as they searched the suspect's apartment for a clue, it was Rick who considered the guitar. It was propped up neatly in the corner and when Rick shook it, he could hear the suspicious shifting.

"Hey guys," he said, moving back toward the living room where the French correspondent was sulking. "I think I found something."

"I didn't know you played," Michael mused, nodding at the guitar.

"I don't," Rick said. "But these guys wouldn't either. They use things like guitars to hide things." He paused, flipping it over. "If we can just find a way to pry it open…"

Casey reached out. "May I?"

Rick handed it over. "I think if we get a knife into that seam—"

Casey lifted the guitar, studying it for a second before smashing it on the table, leaving it in pieces with the small notebook spilling out.

"Well that's one way of doing it," Rick said.

"Fast and efficient," Casey said. "Never waste time."

Rick felt his cheeks flush.

"Don't worry, kid," Simms said, slapping him on the back. "You'll figure it out someday."

Rick just wanted to know _when._

-o-

When they tracked their man to an apartment complex, Rick was ready for action. But when the lights went out, his orders were simple: "Stay here and coordinate with the French."

"But the French are doing_ nothing_!" Rick protested.

Michael shrugged, halfway up the stairs. "Then no problem."

Rick's heart was pounding, his frustrating mounting. "But—"

"Those are your orders, Martinez," Michael snapped, disappearing up the stairs.

On the ground floor, Rick's shoulders slumped. Luc looked at him, apologetic. "Now you see why you Americans have such a bad reputation," he said. "So conceited."

Rick glowered but couldn't disagree.

-o-

The team came back, bedraggled and worse for wear. Michael had a black eye and Carson had a sprained ankle and Casey just looked pissed off when they shoved the suspect at Luc.

"Impressive," Luc said. "You are by far the most intelligent, good looking and brave operatives your country has to offer."

Rick paused his sulking long enough to make a face.

Luc grinned. "Spread those compliments amongst yourselves," he said, then glanced at Rick. "Except you. You get no credit for standing there ineffectually."

With that, Luc turned, smirking.

Rick glared after him. Then he glared at his teammates. "I could have helped," he said.

"Being a spy isn't just about the adventures, Martinez," Michael said.

"You all got to go," Rick pouted.

"We have experience," Casey said.

"Well, to get experience you have to let me finish missions!"

Carson slapped him on the shoulder. "We all pay our dues," he said. "One way or another."

"Besides," Michael said. "We'll let you make the call to Higgins."

Rick furrowed his brow. "He's not going to be happy we went against French authority."

"I know," Michael said. "You sat here safely while we chased a terrorist. This is the least you can do."

Rick gaped, but Carson and Casey just stared at him in total agreement.

Because apparently the ODS was the best the Agency had to offer.

They were also the most infuriating, difficult and incomprehensible.

Sighing, Rick snatched the phone from Michael. "Next time, I vote to go after the terrorist, too."

Michael chuckled. "Sure," he said. "Next time."

-o-

Back in the States, it felt good to sit down at his desk. He was running his fingers over the familiar top when Michael promptly walked up to him and ran a device over him.

"What are you doing?" Rick asked.

"Checking for bugs," Michael replied.

"We already went through the CIA scanner," Rick protested, glaring as Michael started moving the thing over his head as if he could be harboring a bug in his hair.

"That piece of ineffectual crap?" Casey asked. "We always run our own sweeps. Especially after a tussle with foreign agents."'

"Luc wouldn't bug us."

Carson scoffed. "Spies can be awesome and friendly, but they're still spies," he said. "You can't trust them, no matter how good they are at chitchat."

"Besides," Casey said. "We bugged him. So I'd expect no less."

Michael didn't move. "Cell phone, Martinez," he ordered. "Then we'll go through the bag."

Reluctant, Rick pulled out his cell phone, offering it up. Michael plucked it from his grasp, scanning readily as the machine beeped. "We have a winner," he said.

Rick frowned. "What?"

"Your phone," Michael said, holding it out. "It's been tapped."

Rick looked at the phone forlornly. "It's brand new."

Michael shrugged. "That's the breaks."

"Consider it another part of the initiation process," Carson said. "Another rite of passage to check off your list."

Rick dropped the phone into the cup of stale coffee on his desk. Another rite of passage. The problem was, he'd passed through more rites than he could count and he was still no closer to being one of them, to _belonging._

They took him along, protected him, but didn't let him in. He was on the team, but he wasn't_ part _of the team. He was the new guy. Always the new guy. If a ruined cell phone could change that, Rick would be all for it. Hell, he'd taken a bullet for the cause.

But it didn't matter.

Watching his teammates shift through the luggage, it didn't seem like it might ever matter.

-o-

That night, Rick stayed late. Adele's fluctuating interest had slowed him down, and he still wanted to finish the paperwork on the mission before the formal debriefing tomorrow.

Still, it was hard to focus. Even with the quiet and solitude, Rick found himself distracted. He traced the grooves on his desk with his pen, trying to look for a pattern in the odd design even while the blank spaces glared at him.

Frowning, he glanced around for a drink, seeing the old coffee and his ruined phone. He couldn't believe he'd been bugged.

But maybe that was the problem.

He_ should _believe it. Better still, he should think about it in advance. He never would have thought twice about his phone. If he wanted his team to trust him like a capable agent, he had to start being a capable agent.

Rick made a face, thoughtful. He'd checked his luggage and it'd been clean, but if Luc had bugged him, what else could be bugged? Hell, it was entirely possible that his team had bugged him.

He cocked his head. It was more than possible, it was downright probable. How else would they somehow know about the private conversations he had with his mother?

Determined, Rick bent over, looking underneath. The desk was even dingier underneath, deep scuff marks against the sides from where someone with long legs had tried to stretch out and missed a little. He ran his fingers under the edge, but there was nothing out of the ordinary except an odd string of paperclips mounted with staples underneath.

Perplexed, Rick moved to the drawers. The top drawer had a box of antiquated staples lodged in the back and a set of drawer keys that had no apparent match. The next drawer was equally unimpressive, with a magnet for a local Indian restaurant Rick had never heard of. The one beneath that had the effects from Plotkin's desk and the crossword puzzle.

Rick ran his fingers along the back and then noticed the small corner of paper wedged in the back. He pulled at it, but found it stuck. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't just lodged in the groove, it seemed to be stuck someplace else.

Someplace underneath.

Frowning, Rick tugged, and the paper moved a little, more becoming visible. Then Rick realized it wasn't a scrap, it was a corner. The rest of the paper was still in there.

But how? He pulled all the supplies out and the bottom was clean and smooth – cleaner than the other drawers in fact.

So clean that it didn't seem to fit at all. The color was just slightly off, a muted light gray instead of the worn dark of the rest of the desk.

Rick tried to pick at the metal with his fingers, but even when he did get his nails underneath, it was too heavy to lift. He tried a paperclip next, which confirmed that it was a false bottom, but it still wasn't enough to lift it free.

The scissors were equally unsuccessful and Rick sat back, huffing with frustration. There was something clearly in his desk, but he didn't know how to get it out. He could ask his team, but then he'd be asking his team, which was really not what he wanted to do. Either they were responsible for it or they'd take over and never let Rick in on what was going on.

No, this was Rick's desk. It was his mystery. So he had to solve it himself.

He kept working with the scissors but only succeeded in scratching the back panel badly. Frustrated, he threw the scissors down. The metal wasn't moving. He needed to lift straight up – and prying just put pressure on the wrong points and made his task impossible.

Rick stopped, blinking. He had to pull straight up.

Hurried, he opened the other drawer, grabbing the magnet. When he picked it up, it was heavier than he expected. He gave it a quick look, easily identifying the higher power magnet slapped on behind the cheap takeout advertisement.

Heart pounding, Rick went back to the drawer with the false bottom. Working his jaw, he hesitated, wondering if it could be that easy. Wondering what he'd find. Wondering if this was anything at all.

Wondering if he might finally get some answers. Rick wasn't picky at this point. He take_ anything._

He lowered the magnet down in the middle. He went slow, and he didn't even have to touch before the metal twitched and went up.

Carefully, Rick lifted, pulling the metal panel free and exposing the space beneath.

Feeling victorious, Rick let himself grin.

One step down.

-o-

A lot left to go.

With the metal gone, Rick was faced with a cluttered mess. Whoever had stripped the desk clean had apparently neglected this part, which seemed weird to Rick. No one left this much stuff in a desk willingly. Whoever had left it behind had most certainly left in a hurry.

Or forgotten about all together.

It was a strange collection of things. There was a page torn from a magazine – titled_ The Ancient Beauty of the Scottish Highlands _– folded and wrinkled on the top. Below it, there a calendar page dated over three years ago. There was a strange assortment of what appeared to be home made confetti that looked suspiciously liked finely cut mission reports. There was one paper airplane, a ticket stub to Munich and several scribbled hand-written pages.

Pausing, Rick picked up the pages. Immediately, he recognized the handwriting. The blocky, left-handed slant was unmistakable, a perfect match for the half finished crossword he'd already found. Which meant this was all from the same person – probably someone who had sat here for a while. Years, if the varying dates on the stubs and articles were any indication.

At first he thought the pages were notes, maybe a list. But when he looked closer, he cocked his head.

Poetry.

Someone had created a fake bottom for _poetry._

His mission report forgotten, Rick couldn't help but start reading.

-o-

Rick was no connoisseur of poetry, but he had to admit, what he was reading wasn't exactly Shakespeare. Which was probably a good thing, since Rick had never really understood the Bard.

In all, it was pretty perplexing. At first, Rick thought maybe it was a code. Maybe there was a key and it needed to be deciphered. But as he reread it, he began to wonder if it was really just what it seemed to be: melodramatic, poorly written poetry.  
_  
The silent horn, it blows;  
a clarion call to unseen war.  
The shadowed soldier knows  
it's time to head for distant shore.  
He hides his name and face;  
they wait for him, should he return,  
but in some distant place  
they're truths no one may ever learn.  
His purpose he conceals,  
a smile and nod his one disguise.  
He holds to his ideals  
in spite of all the acts and lies.  
He gladly risks his life,  
for countrymen that aren't his own -  
for in this constant strife,  
no better mates he's ever known.  
He doesn't flinch or flee  
because he knows, that after all,  
there's worse fates than to be  
A star engraved upon a wall.  
_  
Frustrated, Rick rubbed his finger between his eyes. All that time, all that energy, and for _poetry. _

Sighing, Rick put the papers down and glanced up. It was late – too late. And he hadn't even finished his paperwork.

He glanced at the stack he'd uncovered, then back at his unfinished report. With a sigh, he put the items back in the drawer, carefully replacing the drop bottom. He wasn't sure who it belonged to, but until he knew more, he figured he could keep this as his secret.

Given how many his teammates had, Rick figured it was about time for one of his own.

-o-

After the first few months Rick's been on the job, apprehending a Russian arms dealer in hiding really wouldn't seem all that unusual. But considering that this is Blanke's mission and it involves Casey being stuffed into a car sear for hours on end, Rick probably should have expected disaster.

It wasn't just that Blanke had the intel wrong, that it wasn't the arms dealer looking to get out, but rather that he was arranging transportation for his daughters. It wasn't even that the compound was well fortified even beyond their expectations or that they had to sit around and feel sorry for a man who had facilitated the death of countless people around the world.

It was the fact that they were relying on two headstrong young women to make their plan work. All it would take was a little charm, but that was easier said than done. Blanke was charming but only in an avuncular sort of way. Any pass he might make would be immediately construed as assault and they'd probably all end up dead.

Simms didn't have the patience to woo and Michael appeared quite happy to delegate that task. Try as Rick might, he was fumbling like a fish out of water. He'd trained languages, self defense, world politics – everything. Which meant that he hadn't exactly spent a lot of time dating.

And it showed.

The younger daughter laughed at him. The older almost called security on him. It was only when Rick blurted the truth, that they were there to arrest her father, that she actually listened to him at all.

It was messy; it was a near thing. But somehow, it worked.

-o-

Back home, Rick felt exhausted.

Michael nodded at him. "You pulled through, kid."

Rick scoffed. "I'm not a charmer," he said. "You shouldn't put me in that situation again."

"You're young and attractive," Michael said. "Better than the rest of us anyway."

"But I'm the kind of guy whose fiancée cheats on him," he said.

"It happens," Simms consoled nonchalantly.

"With my brother," Rick clarified.

Michael made a face. "Ouch," he said. "Point taken. But really, I'm not sure who else could have done better. Casey hurts people. I lead."

"What about Simms?" Rick asked.

Simms rolled his eyes. "I'm too old for that nonsense," he said.

"But I'm the translator," Rick protested. "What do you do?"

"He makes sure we have enough common sense to come home alive," Michael said. "Which is a way bigger job than translating. So you'll just have to pull double duty."

Rick gaped a bit.

Casey shrugged. "Consider it a compliment."

"Is it?" Rick asked.

Casey shook his head. "No, but you can consider it one and I won't think too much less of you."

Rick grunted and hunched over his desk, sulking as he got back to work.

-o-

It bothered him. When he worked late, he looked over the room, at the three other desks, then his own. Four desks.

There were four desks in the office. For four members of the ODS.

Yet there was no talk of the operative who had preceded him. There wasn't even a hint of a mention. This mission had made it clear that the ODS was missing_ something,_ and now that Rick was aware of that it seemed glaring. Rick was trying to fit into a round hole like a square peg.

And it wasn't working.

Curious, he opened the drawer. Putting the magnet in place, he lifted, and looked at the stash again. It was more organized now – Rick had sorted the small effects and put them in some kind of order – and it wasn't hard to pick up the stack of poetry.  
_  
He gladly risks his life,  
for countrymen that aren't his own -  
for in this constant strife,  
no better mates he's ever known.  
_  
Rick didn't totally get that, but he got what mattered most. Risking his life for his teammates – that was the essence of what made a team work. It was what made a team_ good._

But the last –_ no better mates he's ever known _– Rick wished he could understand. Because the ODS seemed like that kind of team. Seemed like they _could _be. But they didn't let him in. They didn't let him be one of them. And everything they did was slightly off as a result.

_No better mates. _But that was British. So maybe it wasn't even a CIA agent at all. But then how did it end up in a desk in Langley? Was that why the poet was fighting _for countrymen that aren't his own?_

Four desks and one missing piece.

Or maybe it was nothing. Coincidence. His team had stolen the chair, they could have stolen the desk. The dated material was over three years old, and Rick knew for a fact how much could happen in three years. This poetry could belong to anyone.

Though, what it lacked in style it made up for in passion. The block handwriting was intense, scrawled with definitive intention. It had its angst, but it was also a celebration. The man had found purpose, not just in his poetry, but in his job. That was what Rick wanted – or thought he wanted. That was why he'd joined the CIA in the first place. To make a difference, to serve his country, to do the right thing.

That much resonated. Moreover, whoever had written it wasn't a great poet, but he'd had one hell of a team. Rick could have the passion and the ideals and the courage, and he could even have the team, but he would never be part of them the way the poet was.

His team would never let him.

All this and to think, Rick was actually jealous of bad poetry.

Sighing, he put it back in the drawer, lingered at his desk. He'd thought he'd found answers, but there was nothing there but more questions.

Too many questions and never enough answers.

-o-

Setting up Blanke with his own office was one thing; being called down there on a semi consistent basis almost made Rick regret it.

Until he realized that Blanke wasn't just annoying and oblivious. He was actually a veritable fount of information.

And Rick had questions. Lots and lots of questions.

"So you've known the ODS for a while?" Rick asked one day.

"Oh, years!" Blanke said, enthusiastic. "I've been at this Agency as long as Michael." He leaned forward, beaming. "We were in the same class at the Farm. He got recruited pretty quick to the ODS but I spent my time diversifying my career."

If diversifying meant walking circles around the Agency, then maybe Blanke had a point. But that was neither here nor there. Rick kept his focus. "So have they always been like this?"

Blanke looked at him. "You mean, the best?"

"Well, yeah," Rick said. "But, I don't know. They seem like they're barely pulling it together sometimes."

"Ah," Blanke said. Then his expression fell, brow furrowing thoughtfully. "Well, they've had their struggles and some of those have changed them more than others."

"Like what?" Rick prompted.

"Oh, I couldn't go into it," Blanke said. "So much of that stuff is just hearsay and rumor. And the rest…well, they've gotten through it with so much integrity that it seems silly to belabor the point."

Of all the times for the man to start learning discretion. "So there is a reason why they are the way they are?"

"I couldn't even begin to tell you," Blanke said. "Most of it is classified anyway. Top secret, if you know what I mean. Plus, Michael has threatened me within an inch of my life if I tell anyone. Especially you."

Rick made a face. "Wait, why would they warn you not to tell me?"

"Michael Dorset is a paranoid bastard," Blanke said, eyebrows raised. "Haven't you noticed?"

It was probably no surprise to anyone that Rick had.

-o-

Sofia Voukalof was difficult. She was opinionated and proud and independent. She valued her ideals and was willing to die for what she believed in.

In a lot of ways, she was just like the ODS.

Which was why she was so difficult to work with.

The mission was up and down, with body doubles and subterfuge, and Rick thought more than once that the whole thing was going to blow up in their faces. Possibly literally.

But Sofia cast her vote and became the next president of her country.

That was how it should be, he thought. People doing the right thing and getting rewarded for it. Justice and freedom prevailing.

It made him feel good.

But at home, he still sat at his desk and watched his teammates work in silence. They could help change the world, it seemed, but Rick wondered if they would ever change themselves.

-o-

After the adrenaline faded and they filed their mission reports, life went back to normal. Michael read best sellers. Carson doodled. Casey clicked at his computer.

Rick sat at his desk, wondering how this was the same team he always saw in action. Reclined in his chair and reading, Michael didn't elicit the same intensity and trust as he did in the field, the kind he used to convince Sofia to trust them and leave her well established entourage behind. Hunched over, reading email, Casey looked more like an office lackey than a human weapon. As for Carson, with his sloppy appearance and tired features, he looked like he was probably sleeping with his eyes open.

Then he snored.

Rick frowned. This couldn't be how it always had been. He'd seen them in action, he knew what they could do. But it was like someone had sucked the soul right out of them and left them like_ this. _

Tepid, anal, paranoid and boring.

Not to mention reclusive.

Fidgeting in his seat, Rick felt his nerves fray, and an errant line of poetry slipped into his head.  
_  
He doesn't flinch or flee  
because he knows, that after all,  
there's worse fates than to be  
A star engraved upon a wall.  
_  
He looked at Michael, at Casey, at Carson again. They were alive; they were field worthy. They got missions done – remarkable missions, even. Still, Rick wondered if they'd already lost the thing that made them great – whatever_ that _was.

Shifting again, Rick leaned his elbows against his desk and started to plan.

-o-

The ODS was secretive, and few people seemed to know much about them other than their antics and their reclusiveness. Men who served in the ODS apparently weren't big on friends.

Fortunately, Rick didn't need a friend. Not when he had an ex-wife to consult.

When he knocked, he wasn't sure what quite to expect. He and Fay were on speaking terms, but their relationship had been awkwardly professional ever since their truncated fling. Rick had effectively ditched her to run off with her paranoid ex, so he was pretty certain that all offers to couple up were off the table.

But the mission with Sofia had meant something to Fay, and she'd been genuinely excited when they came home and Sofia became president. He could only hope that that goodwill would be extended to him still.

Cautious, he poked his head inside.

For a second, she eyed him. Then, she smiled. "Come on in," she said. "I was just finishing up the last of the paperwork on your mission before we file it as a total success."

Rick eased in, sitting down with a grin. "We didn't do the hard work," he said. "Sofia won that election. We just made sure she stayed alive long enough for it."

"Well, in a place like that, such things are easier said than done," she said. She paused. "It was really good work, you know. Things like that, they make a difference."

"I know," Rick said.

She studied him. "So why are you here anyway? It better not be an errand for Michael," she said, shaking her head. "He can come and do his own dirty work. Sending you doesn't help."

Rick laughed, though he couldn't blame her. "No," he said. "Michael didn't send me."

She looked surprised.

He shrugged. "But I did sort of want to talk about Michael."

At that, she groaned. "And that's not an awkward thing," she said. "Generally ex-husbands are off topic for colleagues."

"I don't want to ask you about him as your husband," he said readily. "Just – as a team. I mean, the ODS."

She lifted her eyebrows.

Rick sighed, trying to stop his fumbling. "I've been with the ODS for a while now," he said. "And I don't know. I can't figure them out."

She snorted. "Welcome to the club," she said. "I was married to Michael and I still can't figure them out half the time."

"It's just, like, I know I'm part of the team," he said. "I know they trust me to get the job done, but they don't totally trust me with everything. They're always holding back."

"They're a secretive bunch," Fay admitted. "That was always part of the problem. He told them more than he told me. They were their own little circle of trust."

"But that's the thing," Rick said. "I'm not quite in the circle either. Or maybe I'm inside it and they're around me, so I never know completely what's going on."

"Well, they take time," she said. "It's been just the three of them for three years now."

"So there was a fourth member?" Rick pressed. "Before me?"

Fay's eyes skittered away and her jaw worked for a moment. "Yeah," she said, trying to sound casual.

"Did they leave?"

Gathering a breath, Fay made a face. "It's a long story," she said.

"Well, I'm all ears," he said.

Her smile turned a little sad. "I don't think it's really my story to tell," she said.

"Wait, so you're keeping secrets, too, now?" he asked.

"Hey, I told you on day one," she said. "We all keep secrets in here. There can't be any recrimination for that."

Rick was starting to feel desperate. "I just can't figure them out," he said. "Are they as good as they seem? What are they holding back? Why won't they trust me?"

She sighed and was quiet for a long moment. "The ODS is… complicated," she said. "They are the best, but they're not as good as they once were. A lot has changed, most of it not for the better."

"That's it?" Rick asked. "That's all you can tell me?"

Her expression softened. "I can also tell you that they accept you more than you think," she said.

Rick was dubious.

"If they didn't want you here, you wouldn't still be here," she said. "But they're better with you. They won't admit it, but they need you."

Back in the office, none of them looked up when he entered. He settled back in his desk, watching them. They didn't look like they needed him.

But they certainly needed something.

-o-

When an operative was compromised in China, Casey organized the mission and had the ODS flying out before Rick even had a chance to ask why.

Then he met Linda.

Casey glared at her. "I see you're still stupid enough to sleep with your operatives."

She didn't back down but smirked at him instead. "What, you thought you were the only one?" she asked coyly. Then she looked at the rest of the ODS. "But you should know me well enough that I'm not into groups."

"We're here to bring you home," Michael interjected.

"That's nice," Linda replied. "But I'm here to stay."

Really, Rick should have expected that. Only the ODS could have a rescue operation turn into something else on a dime.

A rescue operation in a dangerous country with a compromised asset.

Only the ODS.

-o-

If Rick should have expected that their little in and out mission would turn into an all out affair, he never could have expected that Casey and Linda used to be…

"You banged her?" Carson asked bluntly, back on the street.

Casey shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Everyone has needs."

"She didn't seem like a one night stand," Carson said.

"We were stationed together for two years," Casey said. "It was convenient. She was creative and willing and had a pleasant proclivity to work with her clothes off that suited me. Then, we weren't stationed together. It became inconvenient."

Rick tried to wrap his mind around some of that, but then got an unsettling mental image of Casey without his clothes on and all other rational thought ceased.

"Well, you know," Carson said, leaning close. "Now that you're back together again for this mission, it might be convenient…"

"Then by all means, go for it," Casey said. "But I will warn you, she has a nasty right hook and she's not afraid to use it."

With that, he stalked in front of him. Carson grinned, Michael made a face.

Rick just considered being sick.

-o-

It was a weird thing, seeing his team interact with others. Not just assets or people in their protection. But actual people that they had presumably once cared about. Sure, there was Fay, but given her ready frustration with Michael she seemed to be the exception that proved the rule.

And the rule, to this point, had been that the ODS was an insular, exclusive group. They didn't have friends; they didn't have families. They didn't even discuss their personal lives with each other. Everything was a need-to-know. Especially details of who they were, what they liked, and who they loved.

But_ Linda.,_

True, Casey tried to hide it. He was gruffer than usual, his manner basically unprofessionally cold. He chided Linda about everything, and showed no compassion to her, her situation or her dead asset-turned-lover. If this was Casey's way of hiding his latent jealousy, it was pretty damn effective.

Yet, Linda knew him. The shopkeeper knew them. There was familiarity and affection, even if Casey staunchly refused to return it.

It was clear, though, that Casey hadn't _always _been that way. There had been a time when he'd cared about people, when he'd opened himself up. He'd called his relationship with Linda convenient, but Rick was pretty sure it had been anything but.

It made Rick wonder when the human weapon had started to become less human and more weapon – and how long it would be until there was nothing sentimental left at all.

-o-

Linda called it the two percent. She came by, gloating, calling Casey out on the feelings he wasn't showing.

"You said it yourself," she said, smirking. "I took two percent off your game. Two percent? For you? That's saying a lot."

Rocking back in his chair, Rick propped his feet up on his desk and grinned. It was a thought. Casey, functioning at less than 100 percent.

Casey lifted his eyebrows indifferently. "That's why I ended it."

Linda inclined her head. "So the reason you saved my life back there?"

"Part of the mission imperative," Casey replied.

Carson snorted.

Michael rolled his eyes. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Casey looked indignant. "What? You mean you think I managed to take down a dirty police cell mostly on my own after being handcuffed and simultaneously protecting another imprisoned operative while functioning at somewhere less then 100 percent?" he asked. "Honestly, I don't know if I should be flattered or offended."

"Just admit it," Carson joked. "You have a heart."

"I can attest to it," Linda said. "A very virile one."

Rick's smile faded, the negative imagery coming back.

Casey sighed. "If you're all done making jokes, now…"

"No jokes, Casey," Linda said. "I just came by to say I love you, too."

Michael looked amused and Carson was all but laughing. Rick felt his own heart skip a beat as he watched for Casey's reaction.

There should have been humor. Maybe embarrassment. There should have been something.

Instead, Casey looked at her, eyes unwavering, face composed. "I made a mistake back then," he said. "I gave you two percent. It's not one I intend to repeat."

Linda's smile fell just a little and she worked her jaw. She nodded, holding his gaze. "I know," she said, simple and soft. Then she leaned over, giving him a small kiss on the cheek. "It's your loss."

When she walked out, Carson snickered, and Casey got back to work. Michael shook his head, but Rick watched her go. She didn't look back. Casey didn't watch her.

He began to wonder if it wasn't just Casey's loss. If it wasn't even just Linda's. If maybe it was all of theirs.

-o-

Alone in the office, Rick couldn't stop thinking about it.

Two percent.

What did Casey do with that two percent? Did he smile? Did he joke? Did he talk about himself?

Linda had gotten that two percent, but what had he given the ODS so that they trusted him like they did? What percent had they all given once – and how much were they keeping back now?

Because they wanted to pretend that they were at 100 percent. Hell, they trained and they planned and they executed with a frightening attention to detail and precision. But they were missing _something._

And whatever it was, was a whole lot more than two percent.

Most of the time, they could compensate. When one faltered, another could fill the void. They were entirely functional, but Rick had to wonder what they could be if they were operating at peak efficiency.

These revelations regarding Linda only served to justify Rick's growing suspicions that there was something in the ODS' history that he didn't know; something that he probably _needed _to know. Fay's insights had been vague but hardly had swayed him from that, and he was more determined than ever to figure it out.

After all, this was his_ team. _He put his life on the line for these men. The least he could do was actually know them. He still knew more about his phantom desk buddy than he did the three men who actually shared an office with him.

Fay had been his first idea. Agency files were annoyingly sealed regarding personnel matters, and he hadn't wanted to bother Adele with it just yet. Their relationship was still to tentative to start asking for professional favors, as far as he was concerned. Blanke was only moderately helpful, but then he'd actually have to talk to Blanke, which would likely result in a half day listening to Blanke's colorful rendition of American history.

But what else was there? He was inclined to think his desk buddy had something to do with it, but he had nothing but circumstantial evidence. The dates would work with the amount of time the current team had been together, but that was stretching it pretty thin.

Sighing, he opened the drawer, pulling up the fake bottom once again. He flipped through the tickets and souvenirs, but they yielded few new insights. Frustrated, he picked up the poetry again and started flipping through.

He'd read the pieces a lot now – more than he probably should have. Literature had never been his forte in school, and he was regretting it now. It was all still strangely British, which made him doubt his entire train of thought. Maybe it was a coincidence. Some strange twist of fate. Maybe the ODS had smuggled the damn thing overseas. In all honesty, that wouldn't surprise him.

Then, one of the poems made him stop.  
_  
Brave companions  
lead the charge;  
three warriors  
of certain heart_

Brave companions  
led by one  
who make plans as  
he would fine art

Brave companions  
one of which  
has cleverness always  
to impart

Brave companions  
last of whom  
can easily take  
a man apart

Brave companions  
lead the charge;  
never flinching  
from their part

Brave companions  
for their cause  
give mind and body  
soul and heart.  
  
At first, it would be easy to write the poem off as the same melodramatic fluff that happened to fit in verse form. But then Rick really _read _it. _Brave companions _was generic enough, but_ three warriors _resonated. One who planned, one with cleverness, one who could take a man apart.

Michael, Casey, Carson.

Three companions. Never flinching. Giving mind and body – heart and soul.

Whoever had written this_ had _known the ODS. More than that, he had been the fourth member of the ODS.

It probably shouldn't have been much of a revelation, but the part that bothered Rick the most was that people didn't _leave _the ODS. That was never explicitly stated, of course, but the implications were clear. Once Rick had been fully initiated into the group, the notion of ever leaving had been quickly forgotten about. As experienced operatives, Rick didn't doubt that Michael, Casey and Carson had other options – options Higgins would probably happily grant.

But they would never go. Just like Rick would never go. What they did was too important, too singular—

So what had happened to this guy? Where had he gone? Had he betrayed his team? Was that why they didn't trust Rick anymore? Was he living in the shadow of someone who had wronged them?

That would explain the reticence, maybe.

But the poetry didn't sound like the words of a traitor. This guy spoke of nobility and of companionship; he_ believed _this stuff.

Which made Rick wonder how he'd ever fit in with the ODS at all. They were cold and cynical; he was optimistic and buoyant.  
_  
Three warriors of certain heart.  
_  
Rick had to think it had been true one – just like he had to believe it could be true again.

He just had to figure out_ how._

__-o-

After a leak at an embassy overseas got messy, Higgins wanted answers. When Michael brought in his asset, Higgins wasn't the only one who got what he was looking for.

Ray Bishop.

One of the founding members of the ODS.

Rick knew that his intelligence regarding an embassy leak was very important to their ongoing work at safeguarding national security, but all Rick could think about was how he finally might have found someone to help him figure out just what made the ODS tick.

If only it would ever be that easy.

-o-

At first glance, Ray Bishop was everything a good operative should be. Confident, clever, and capable.

But it all fell apart. He could talk the talk, but he couldn't walk the walk. After a panic attack, Rick was forced to realize that maybe the ODS was the same way. The job just hadn't caught up with them yet.

Maybe they'd given their best, but didn't know how to walk away.

He wondered what his teammates would look like when they fell apart.

Then he thought about the man who'd sat in his desk, thought about the companions he'd described, and he wondered if maybe they already had.

-o-

Still, they pull out the mission. With help from Ray and Higgins, no less. Carson dragged him on a car chase, but finished the job himself.

"Hey!" Rick yelled as he ran to catch up with Carson, who was tying up their mark. "We were supposed to do this_ together._"

Carson kneed the guy in the face, letting him fall to the ground with an oomph. He shrugged. "Easier this way," he said. "Besides, you're still the new kid."

Rick glared at Carson, glared at the man on the ground. Just glared. "How am I ever supposed to become_ not _the new kid if you never let me do any of the work."

Carson grinned, ruffling his hair. "Beats me," he said. "But really, it's not my problem."

-o-

In the end, Ray Bishop wasn't a great spy and he wasn't even a great person. But he was passable at both, and Rick wondered if that made him more like the rest of them than any of them would like to admit. The ODS was a team of misfits who played heroes against their will. Ray was in it for the excitement. Michael was too compulsive to stop. Casey had no other outlet for his skills. Carson seemed to lack the initiative to leave.

Rick wanted to do the right thing, and yet they said _he _was the weird one.

"I don't know, kid," Ray said, leaned back and shaking his head. "I've seen a lot of spies. And you just don't got it."

The others were watching, drinks in hand, bemused. There was a time he might have been goaded into arguing, but he knew better now. "You're going to mock me?" he asked. "Really?"

Ray shrugged. "Just got to call it like I see it."

Rick turned his eyes to the rest. "And you all agree with him?"

"Who are we to question such infinite wisdom?" Michael asked.

"Plus, he's paying," Carson said, finishing his drink and nodding toward the bar. "I never argue with the man footing the bill."

"The first round," Ray reminded him. He turned a look on Michael. "You've let your team get sloppy. Not exactly a legacy I'm proud of."

Michael snorted. "Are you kidding?" he said. "When I cleared out your desk, I found your liquor stash."

"Yeah, and then I helped him dispose of it," Carson chimed in.

Casey touched his fingers together, watching as electricity sparked.

Rick laughed. "And you think I don't have it," he said, shaking his head.

"You're a good kid and all," Ray said. "But you aren't like the rest of us. And I'm not sure you ever will be."

The thing was, Rick thought maybe they were right.

He just wasn't sure any of them actually believed that was a bad thing.

-o-

Later, Adele pulled him aside, eyes bright. "Look what I found," she said, holding out the file.

Curious, Rick opened it and gaped. "Is that-?"

"Higgins," she said. "With Ray Bishop."

"They were partnered together?" Rick asked.

"More than that," Adele said. "He was one of the original members of the ODS."

Rick blinked, trying to come to terms with that. "Higgins? But he hates the ODS."

"I know," she said. "So I did a bit of poking and found out that Higgins had a falling out with the ODS."

"Which is why he's gunning for them now," Rick realized, flipping through the rest of the file. There were pictures of Ray, other people he didn't know. Then he saw pictures of Michael, and then of Casey and Simms.

"I know," Adele said. "The file doesn't say what the falling out was, but I can only guess it left a bad taste in his mouth."

"Enough to hold a grudge all these years later," Rick said, seeing his teammates. Smiling. Working. Together. Even in still photographs, they looked more alive. They looked complete, whole.

Then, he came across the last picture in the file. It was newer than the rest. Michael and Casey and Simms were easy to identify – but the fourth man was unknown to him.

He paused, pointing. "Who's this?"

Adele peeked, shrugging. "I don't know," she said. "Must be a former member."

"This isn't that old," Rick said.

"I don't know a lot of the operatives from a few years back," she said. "We had a different pool in Strategic Services."

"But he was definitely a member," Rick surmised, studying him more closely. He was taller, with a day's worth of scruff on his chin. His brown hair was short and spiky, blue eyes bright, his mouth twitching upward in the faintest smile that made him seem eternally amused. He was in a gray suit with a matching vest, a tie slightly lax around his neck.

"This is their personnel file," she said. "It's pretty sparse on details, but the photos are all there."

"But what about identities?" Rick asked, flipping the photo and looking for some kind of ID.

Adele shrugged. "Whatever's there is all I've got," she said.

Rick turned the picture back and looked at it again. Looked at his team, how much different they seemed. Physically maybe not much had changed, but everything about them just seemed different.

Better.

Pressing his lips together, he glanced toward Adele. "Do you think you can find out?" he asked.

"It matters that much to you?" she asked, surprised.

"I know it seems stupid," he said. "But there's something the ODS isn't telling me."

Adele regarded him critically. "We're spies," she said. "There are a lot of things we don't tell people."

"This is different," he insisted. "Something happened to them – something that changed them. If I'm ever going to be a real part of the team, I have to know what that is."

Otherwise he'd always be the odd man out. He'd always be the new guy. He'd always be the kid. He couldn't spend his career being one step behind.

He needed to belong to be effective. He wanted to be part of the team.

He wanted what was in that picture.

Taking the file back, Adele shrugged. "Okay," she said. "I'll see what I can find out."

Rick grinned. "Thanks," he said, pecking her on the cheek.

"Well, don't thank me yet," she said. "Answers are hard to come by in the Agency. Anything I find will likely just make more questions."

She was probably right, but Rick was persistent. He would keep asking questions until they invariably answered themselves.

One way or another.

-o-

At his desk, alone that night, Rick pulled out the poetry. He thought about the man in the photo, the sparkle in his eyes and the trim of his suit. Mentally, he recreated it, seeing the holster on the opposite hip.

A leftie.

The strong block print with the leftward slant.

Coincidence, maybe.

The ticket stubs were from three years ago. The photo had had no date, but the timing made sense. The poetry clearly described the ODS and that had been the most recent picture.

And the poetry – somehow it fit.  
_  
The silent horn, it blows;  
a clarion call to unseen war.  
The shadowed soldier knows  
it's time to head for distant shore.  
_  
It was probably stupid – he was probably over thinking it – but he couldn't shake it. Just like he could shake the words in verse or the look in the man's eyes.

A shadowed warrior. The ghost haunting his desk.

The missing link.

The soul of the ODS.

Rick didn't know who the man was or why he'd left, but he was pretty sure that when he walked away, he took the best parts of Michael, Casey and Carson with him.

A clarion call to unseen war? A distant shore?

Wherever the man was, Rick didn't know whether to resent him or thank him.

Maybe both.

Inexplicably, he wanted to find out.

Putting the poetry away, he promised himself he would.

-o-

An operative went AWOL in Germany. They went to extract him, but when the man up and killed himself, Rick wanted to stay.

His team was a hard sell.

"It's noble," Michael said. "But we don't have enough background on this mission. Or approval."

"That hasn't stopped us before," Rick said.

"You're responding out of some irrational form of grief," Casey told him. "Nobility is a waste of a virtue."

"The cover's not so bad, though," Carson said, knocking back another drink. "I could do with working at a bar."

"That wouldn't work anyway," Rick said. "We'd need to go in as a possible supplier if we want any chance of making contact."

Carson made a face. "Count me out, then," he said. "If there's no free alcohol, what's the point?"

"The point is that he was close," Rick said. "It wouldn't be too hard to get a cover. If we can convince him to buy, then we've nailed him."

"Gallo was in for years and couldn't nail him," Michael said. "And you think we can do it in weeks?"

"It's ambitious," Rick said. "But we can. I _know _we can."

They were dubious. Michael exchanged careful looks with the others before pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes on Rick. "Are you sure?" he asked. "We'd be better off walking away."

"We didn't join the CIA to do what was better off," he said. "We joined to do the right thing."

He meant it. He believed it.

For once, that was enough.

Michael nodded. "Okay, then."

Carson groaned. "You're serious?"

"Martinez here seems to think we can do this one," he said. "And I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt this time."

Casey grunted. Carson took another drink. Rick felt his chest swell.

"Besides," Michael said. "If he's wrong, we can always get him transferred to a remote outpost in Antarctica."

Casey grinned. "I can drink to that."

"Hey!" Rick protested.

Carson shoved a drink toward him. "Just drink, kid," he said. "Nothing seems so bad after a pint or two."

-o-

Once the team committed to the mission, it wasn't so hard to work out the details. They'd go in under a familiar brand that had been coopted by the CIA a few years ago. They'd use that cover for automatic credibility, hanging around in the bar until they managed to score a meeting. A little smooth talking, an offer that couldn't be refused, and they'd be able to get in, make the arrest and get out.

"Who will be our undercover man?" Rick asked.

Michael shrugged. "It's a pretty big responsibility," he said. "Normally we have a bit more time to set up the details. This is a cover we'll have to sell more on the fly than normal."

"I can do it," Rick said, nodding seriously. "I'm ready."

Michael lifted his eyebrows. "That's ambitious."

"That's stupid," Casey said.

Rick frowned.

"It's a nuanced thing," Michael explained in conciliation. "None of your missions have been nearly so involved."

"I'm out," Casey said. "I don't have the patience to be a simpering drug dealer."

"And I think I'm better off running point behind the scenes," Michael said. He paused. "That just leaves Carson."

Carson stopped mid drink. Swallowing, he made a face. "No, man," he said. "I'm too old for this kind of crap."

"You're the smoothest one of us all," Michael argued.

"I'm not a charmer," Carson snipped back. "You _know _that."

"You're the closest thing we've got," Michael said.

"I hate to agree with anything that suggests Simms has a personality, but I think Michael's right," Casey said.

"I still think I can do it," Rick interjected.

Carson looked at Rick, face dark. "No," he said. "They're right. I'll do it."

Rick's frustrations mounted. "But I can do it!"

"That fact that you have to whine about it like a three year old is more reason that I'm doing it," Carson said.

"Good," Michael said, even as Rick sulked. "It's settled."

"Under one condition, though," Carson said. "The Agency foots the bill for the drink."

"You really want to create an itemized tab for your drinking habit?" Casey asked indignantly.

"Hell, yes," Carson said. "I'm a drug runner and a piss poor music organizer. Alcohol is like oxygen to me. If you want this thing to be a success, I can be worried about my tab."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Spoken like a true American hero."

-o-

Carson was begrudging about his job, but he wasn't bad at it. Rick watched him work and found himself hoping for failure, but Carson did his job just fine. In fact, he was more than fine. Talking to criminals, he fit right in. Cool and easy and utterly believable.

Listening, Rick almost had to gape. "I had no idea he was—" he fumbled, turning red.

Casey smirked. "You had no idea he was any good," he said.

Rick shrugged feebly. "Yeah," he admitted. "I've just never seen him try before, I guess."

"Putting forth the least possible version of yourself is a great way to gain the element of surprise," Casey instructed him. "And some people only perform under pressure."

That was true, Rick figured. For Michael and Casey, he had no doubts.

But for Carson…

Watching him lie and manipulate, schmooze and waffle – he was flawless. Almost like it wasn't a cover at all. Maybe Rick could learn something from Simms after all.

For some reason, he just wasn't sure he wanted to.

-o-

To say things went poorly would be like saying that Michael preferred control or that Casey had some physical skill. An understatement of the grossest and more ludicrous kind.

Gallo wasn't dead; the boss' girlfriend was pregnant by a CIA officer; Rick risked his fledgling relationship with Adele over heroin; Carson drank their entire budget in one day; then the bodyguard had found the bug they'd planted.

And that had just been the start. Then Blanke had gotten apprehended at the airport, Adele had read in German authorities and the boss sent his minions to the meet and kept Carson as collateral. As if that hadn't been enough, the Germans decided to finish the raid anyway, regardless of the risk posed to the ODS' man, effectively sentencing Carson to death.

Without radio contact, Rick felt his stomach churn dangerously as Michael drove them back. He went faster than Rick had ever seen him go before, face pinched and knuckles white on the wheel. The look of determination in his face was only vaguely familiar; Rick remembered it from the vestiges of his consciousness back in Bolivia, although he'd often suspected he'd hallucinated at least some of that.

Now, though, Rick wasn't so sure. Because Michael didn't stop and Casey didn't blink, and they barely even spoke as they got into position, ready to blow the wall and get Carson the hell out.

But when they got there, Carson was waiting for them in the alleyway.

"About damn time," he muttered. "You know they bungled the meet."

Rick was too stunned to speak, and even though Michael found his voice, he sounded unusually breathless. "Yeah," he said. "The Germans screwed us over to make the lesser bust."

"Figures," Carson muttered.

Casey came up, shaking his head. "I can't stand people who accept less than total victory."

It was all well and good to some degree. Because Rick had expected the worst, and this was most definitely not the worst. Which just begged the question: "How are you _alive_?"

Carson raised his eyebrows. "You don't have to sound so damn disappointed, kid," he said.

Rick's mouth opened, then closed. "I just – it would have been obvious that the set up was on your side."

"Of course it was," Carson said. "Sons of bitches waved a gun in my face and kept talking about pulling the trigger."

Rick shook his head. "So how come they didn't?"

Carson smiled, a little bitter. "I talked my way out of it," he said.

"But _how_?" Rick asked, still gaping.

Carson rolled his eyes. "I played the victim card," he said. "Made them think I'd been double crossed by my suppliers just as much as they had and then offered to help get revenge while also getting them a bigger score."

Michael nodded in approval. "Keep the mission in play, nice," he said.

"We've talked about a replacement shipment for next week," Carson said. "I promised him double for the price, so we're going to have to work on the kid's girlfriend—"

"Love has to be good for something," Casey said.

Rick's brow furrowed.

"How are we going to catch him in the act, though?" Michael asked. "He's going to be gun shy after this foul up."

"I know," Carson said. "I promised to deliver it to him personally. So if we can get a wire on me and get me back in here with the shipment, we should be good to go."

Michael nodded again. "Not bad."

Carson grinned tiredly. "I've spent too much time around you paranoid bastards for my own good."

That could have been that. The mission in play; the team alive, okay. But Rick couldn't shake it. "I still don't understand why he didn't just kill you," he said. "I've read the file on this guy. He doesn't give second chances."

"You underestimating my ability to play the part?" Carson asked.

"No," Rick said. "I just couldn't imagine any cover would be enough for that situation."

Carson's eyes were weary, his smile cold. "It's not so hard," he said. "I was begging for my life. That kind of desperation didn't have to be faked. Made everything else pretty believable."

He was right, of course. He had to be right. Desperation was a strong asset.

It was also a weakness. Rick supposed it was just good that this time it worked out in their favor.

-o-

Everyone got their happy ending. Gallo and his girlfriend got away. The bad guy was arrested. The Germans got their pride; the CIA got their man. Even Blanke made it back to the United States without further incident. Adele's tenure in Higgins' chair was successful; the ODS had saved the day again.

So Rick couldn't decide why the entire thing sat so poorly with him. There had been fear, of course. That car trip over to find Carson had been one of the scariest moments of his life – maybe even more unnerving than bleeding out in the back of a van, miles from medical help. But Carson had been fine. He'd been more than fine. He'd saved himself and the mission – without any help at all.

That was a good thing. Sometimes defying the odds meant happy endings even when there should be tragedy.

And yet, it_ bothered _him. The explanation had seemed legitimate and still.

Still.  
_  
It's not so hard. I was begging for my life. That kind of desperation didn't have to be faked. Made everything else pretty believable.  
_  
He could still see Carson's cold, tired eyes. That smile, knowing, futile, regretful. He hadn't been the triumphant hero; he'd been the war-weary survivor, at any cost.

At _any _cost.

Rick couldn't judge, because Rick didn't know what he'd do in that position. He could say what lies he'd tell if it was his life on the line and no back up in sight. He didn't know.

-o-

Adele pulled him aside the next morning. "Hey," she said. "We got kind of waylaid by that last mission."

Rick smiled grimly. "I know," he said. "I still can't believe we pulled that out."

She laughed. "I know," she said. "Higgins was nearly apoplectic when he found out. But since it ended so well, he couldn't really say anything about it."

"I'm not even sure how it all worked out," Rick admitted. Michael had been vague in the paperwork, and Rick had been too tired to do anything but provide his initials and send the report off.

"Well," she said. "What I was going to say was that we got so involved in that last mission that I never got to tell you what I found out."

Rick felt himself brighten. "The file," he remembered. "Could you identify the fourth operative?"

She had an apologetic look on her face. "I was able to confirm that he was the fourth member of the ODS about three years ago. But everything else in the file was classified."

Rick's brow darkened. "You couldn't even get a name?"

She shrugged. "His file is still active in some way," she said. "If he's still involved in sensitive missions, then his real identity is going to be need to know."

"So that's it?" Rick asked, incredulous. All his poking and prodding, and he was being stopped by red tape.

"Sorry," she said, reaching out to squeeze his arm. "You could just ask them about it."

Rick grunted. "You just got done overseeing a mission with the ODS," he reminded her. "Do you think they're just going to tell me about the mystery man whose file is sealed?"

She winced. "Yeah, I guess not," she said. Then, she hesitated. "I still don't totally get why this matters so much to you. They trust you, you know."

"I do know," Rick said. "And I don't know, I trust them."

"Then who cares?" she pressed. "This is the CIA. After a few years, we all have skeletons in our closets."

Rick sighed, trying to verbalize it. He wasn't sure he totally understood it. But the glaring absence, the missing piece – it _bothered _him. For all this team was, it wasn't all it _should _be, and Rick was becoming keenly aware that the most crucial element was missing. Rick was being shoehorned into a void he could never possibly fill, and if he was ever going to figure that out, he had to know who left it – and why.

Then he'd understand why Michael was a heartless, paranoid bastard. Then he'd know why Casey was practically an automaton. Then he'd know why Carson drank his way through every mission.

And then Rick would understand the poetry in the drawer. He'd _understand._

"It's not about the skeletons," Rick told her. "It's about the team now. We cut that mission too close in the field."

"That was bad luck."

"Maybe," Rick conceded. "But it was also just the way things are for the ODS. And if I'm going to keep putting my life and my career on the line, I need to know why."

She was quiet for a moment, eyebrows knit together. Finally she nodded. "Okay, then," she said. "If there's anything I can do…"

His expression softened. "Hey, you've been great," he said. "Really, I owe you for looking."

Her eyes twinkled. "Well, Operative Martinez. I might know a few ways you can make it up to me."

Rick grinned back. "I look forward to it."

"Oh," she said, starting to saunter away. "You should."

-o-

Rick stopped by his office before taking off, checking to see if he had any new emails before turning off his computer for the night. The other chairs were empty, and he hesitated. Sighing, he opened the drawer, pulling up the drop bottom.

It was getting to be a habit, an obsessive compulsive comfort mechanism. Looking at the items helped him think; it helped calmed him down. When everything else was a question mark, these were concrete pieces of evidence, tangible answers to questions he couldn't quite fathom yet.

Rick couldn't figure out his team, but he was figuring out more about this man. True, Rick didn't know his name, but that didn't totally matter. He knew the man was a slob – the pages were stained and crumbled. He also clearly liked coffee, if the brown rings smeared onto some of the items was any indication. He had an affinity for melodrama – hell, he probably read Shakespeare if the predictable rhyme structure of the poetry was any indication.

The British thing still didn't make much sense – how did a Brit get on with the CIA – though it would probably explain his tendency toward poetry. Poetry and verse weren't as marginalized overseas.

Looking over the flattened pages, he thought about the man in the photo. His smiles; his eyes. His day-old stubble.  
_  
He hides his name and face;  
they wait for him, should he return,  
but in some distant place  
they're truths no one may ever learn.  
His purpose he conceals,  
a smile and nod his one disguise.  
He holds to his ideals  
in spite of all the acts and lies.  
_  
Acts and lies, just like any spy. They wait for him, should he return…return to where? Back to the ODS? Or maybe back home to England?

Rick wondered briefly if maybe he was a double agent, somehow implanted in the CIA by MI6. That fit with the concealed purpose. But the rest – the respect of the ODS, the willingness to be a star on the wall – those weren't the words of a traitor.

They were the words of a hero.

The kind of spy Rick longed to be.

Which made the question even more pressing: what had happened? And why had it presumably changed the ODS so much?

Questions. Always questions.

Frustrated, Rick put the poem back and resealed the fake bottom.

After all these questions, he was more than ready for answers.

-o-

It was Rick's idea.

"You want to sell false hope to a dying man?" Michael asked, brow wrinkled.

Rick shrugged, a little sheepish. "It would be the easiest way to gain access to him and put the pieces in place," he said. "Everything we've got on this guy says he's desperate."

"Essentially, you want to take advantage of him when he's at his weakest," Casey concluded.

Rick shifted, guilty. "That's bad, isn't it?"

"No," Casey said. "It's genius."

"It's our best chance to make sure that when he dies, the next in line is his good son – not the maniacal would-be dictator with plans to rule with an iron fist," Michael agreed.

Rick hesitated, looking from one teammate to the next. "So…?"

Carson sighed, sitting up. "So, kid," he said. "Looks like you're a heartless bastard just like the rest of us." He offered a grim smile. "Welcome to the club."

-o-

This mission had its ups and downs.

Up: he got to see Adele in an amazing dress.

Down: he had to watch her flirt with a dictator's son.

Up: Michael and Carson got in undercover with no problem.

Down: The body Rick and Casey helped prepared to set up the other son sunk – taking the mission with it.

Up: they found a replacement.

Down: it was a pretty crappy job.

Up: they got the job done. The father died, the son with military goals was disinherited and the younger one took over with the intent to lead fairly.

Down: their success was entirely an accident. The tipoff documents meant to implicate the bad son had actually implicated the good one, but somehow that had worked out because that was the way things were with the ODS.

And after all this time, Rick just had to accept it.

-o-

The ODS received a commendation for their work. It should have been a heady thing, meeting the vice president and receiving applause from his coworkers. Even a message from the president himself.

But back in the office, Rick had trouble being happy. This was what he'd wanted – the career, the honors, the_ purpose _– and yet, it was nothing he'd expected. He'd gone from the mole to the new guy, the protected kid to the trusted teammate. He was one of them. And yet, he wasn't.

He never would be.

He couldn't change his team. Maybe he couldn't even figure them out. Maybe he just had to take the ups with the downs and accept it all. Maybe it was okay this way. Maybe he didn't need answers. Maybe he was looking for skeletons in a closet he had no right to shake. Maybe it was all in his head – maybe it was _nothing._

Michael and Casey and Carson – they liked him. They looked after him. They included him – most of the time. Maybe that was what mattered.

After all, Rick helped change a country by lying to a despot. He helped bring a man to power who wanted to sleep around and get drunk. None of these things were perfect, and yet here he was, lauded and praised and honored. Being a spy wasn't about perfection; it was about being good enough.

Rick had to think what he had here with the ODS was good enough.

Lingering at his desk, he read the poetry again.  
_  
Brave companions  
lead the charge;  
never flinching  
from their part  
_  
Brave companions – the ODS was that, even when they didn't want to be. Lead the charge – the ODS was set on doing the_ right _thing, even when it wasn't in their orders. Never flinching – maybe not never, but most of the time. Enough of the time.

Their part.

Rick had a part in this.

It wasn't what he expected, and he didn't totally understand, but maybe it was good enough.

Putting the poem away, he removed the magnet, putting it back in the drawer above it. No more questions – because there weren't any answers.

And it was time for Rick to really accept that – once and for all.


	5. SECTION FOUR

A/N: Sorry if I still haven't gotten your review replied for! Each reader is greatly appreciated :) And we're almost to Billy. Just a little longer! Thank you!  
**  
SECTION FOUR  
**  
-o-

Rick had been duped, led on and mocked. He'd been nearly thrown into a Russian prison and shot in the leg in Bolivia. In his first year at the Agency, he'd learned a lot, found a place.

But he was still the new guy. Michael still kept him out of the loop and Casey barely took the time to acknowledge his presence in the field. Carson seemed to humor him when necessary, and Rick still didn't know anything personal about any of them. Rick was still a trusted member of the team, but he never got to do the dangerous jobs, and they'd never let him work solo.

After a year, he was still the new guy. Rick had hoped that things would transition naturally, but he had discovered that the ODS was set in their ways. They'd deemed Rick the kid and while they no longer blackmailed him into submission, they didn't seem to treat him quite as an equal.

Their concern would almost be sweet, except this was the CIA. Rick was a spy, and a spy who was coddled wasn't much of a spy at all.

And Rick was a spy. Spies went on missions; they found intelligence. They did the impossible. They lied, they went undercover, they defied the odds. They recruited assets.

If his team wouldn't trust him alone in the field, he'd have to prove himself any way he could and finding an asset all his own would be the perfect place to start.

It was a good lead. The man lived in Bangkok, had connections to various illegal enterprises throughout the region. He had been reticent, but progressively more helpful and interested in working out a long term partnership.

The intel would be a boon; Rick could help form missions, direct US policy, save_ lives._

Or at least get his team to stop treating him like a tagalong kid brother.

He made his pitch to Higgins, who looked mostly unimpressed. Then he glanced over. "What do you think?" the director asked. "Is he ready?"

Rick followed his gaze to where his teammates were seated. They were the picture of indifference, legs crossed and arms folded, armed with books and magazines and bored stares.

"We've been screwed by these people before," Michael said, shrugging.

"It's like a baby bird leaving the nest too early," Casey remarked coolly. "I hardly think it's worth the effort just to watch him go splat."

Carson sighed. "At some point, we all have to make our own mistakes."

Rick frowned, but he wasn't surprised.

"Your confidence is inspiring," Higgins mused. Then he looked at Rick. "The fact that they're so lukewarm bodes in your favor." He handed the file back to Rick. "But please, try not to go splat."

Rick took the file back, a small smile on his lips. His team could talk him down, act like they didn't care. He knew them well enough to know it wasn't a lack of trust or belief; it was their way of protecting him. Or controlling him.

Which was the same thing.

And that was fine. Because this would be the mission Rick would prove himself – once and for all.

-o-

Alone in an alley in Bangkok, Rick was ready. He had the money, he had his computer; he was_ ready._

Ready to make the meet; ready to get the intel. Ready to prove to his team he _could _do it. He _could _be a spy – and a_ good _spy at that.

When his asset rode up, Rick was so hyped up on adrenaline that he could hardly hold onto the case, he was sweating so bad. When the asset offered him the intelligence, he prayed the man couldn't see how bad he was shaking.

He didn't. Or, if he did, it didn't matter. Because Rick had planned for everything, and had his computer ready to check the intelligence. He had the money locked with a code, and the asset waited anxiously while Rick loaded the file.

Jaw clenched, he had to force himself to breathe. This was it; make it or break it. If there was junk on the file, then he'd have nothing to show for his work. He'd have proven them right; he'd have gone_ splat _just like Higgins told him not to. They would never stop seeing him as the new guy; he'd always be the kid.

Then the disc loaded, and the intel came up. Documents and photos; notes from foreign spy agencies.

It was good.

Rick had to keep his emotions in check, but the relief was so palpable, he almost wanted to cry.

The intel was_ good._

"Okay," Rick said, smiling now. "The pass code to the money is 2445. And I'm sure we'll be in contact."

The asset was still a bit sulky, but he nodded. Everything was going well – not quite perfect, but good enough. This was going to work.

Until a van came around the corner.

And nothing was good anymore.

-o-

The asset reacted badly. Indignant, he lashed out. "You tricked me!" he yelled, throwing a fist toward Rick and following up with a shot from the briefcase.

Rick yelped. "No, I—"

But then he was caught in the temple, stumbling back and falling hard on his backside as he saw stars.

There was a scuffle and a honking, and then the revving engine of a motorcycle.

On the ground, Rick blinked, trying to clear his vision, trying to see who it was that had found him.

Still straining to see, things were blurry around the edges, but it wasn't hard to recognize the three figures in the nondescript white van.

Michael gave him a wan smile in the driver's seat. "Huh," he said. "An alleyway? Really? You've been watching too many spy movies."

"Bad spy movies, at that," Casey chimed in from behind.

"Least he's going to have a stellar bruise for his trouble," Carson said. "If he's a wannabe action hero, he may as well look the part, right?"

Rick's fingers clenched into fists and he let his head drop back against the pavement. He'd planned for everything – for betrayal, for cold feet, for confusion – but he hadn't planned for_ this._

His team, swooping in. To save him or screw him. Maybe both.

Maybe, after all this time, Rick would have to accept that they were really the same thing.

-o-

By the time Rick managed to get back on his feet, he wasn't sure what emotion was more pressing: outrage or embarrassment.

Because his teammates had just fouled up his first solo meet; thanks to their intrusion, it was likely his asset would never talk to him again, making all of Rick's hard work for naught. More than that, they had barged in like parents checking on a delinquent teenager, and Rick felt the flush in his cheeks, suddenly grateful for the swelling bruise blossoming there.

He wanted to rage; he wanted to stamp his foot and pout. He settled for a livid, "What are you guys doing here!"

Michael smirked at him, bending over. At first Rick thought he was offering a hand to pull him up, but he snagged Rick's bag instead, plucking out the laptop. "Just seeing how you're doing," he said.

The van door opened and Casey was poised in back, eating some local cuisine. "I'm just here for the food."

From the passenger's seat, Carson's expression was unreadable under a pair of large, dark sunglasses. "You really think there's such a thing as solo missions in the ODS?" he asked. "You're greener than I thought."

Rick sulked more than before, picking himself up off the ground and wiping his pants in vain. "I was _fine_," he said, too aware of how petulant he sounded.

"Uh huh," Michael said, setting up the laptop on a nearby crate. "Then why did the asset put you on your ass?"

Rick flung his arms wide in indignation. "Because you came in and spooked him!"

"We could have been anyone," Carson said. "It's not our fault that your asset was so jumpy."

"Or that you would be unable to dodge such an obvious blow," Casey said, looking critically at the meat he was eating. "Needs more turmeric."

Rick's scowl deepened. "This was _my mission_, though," he said. "You can't keep treating me like the new guy."

"You_ are _the new guy," Michael said, opening the file.

"Not like that," Rick argued. "This asset is good. This asset is_ mine._"

"This asset is a bust," Michael concluded.

Rick frowned. "What?"

Michael nodded at the screen. "Your asset played you."

Rick moved closer. "There's loads of intel on there," he said. "I checked it myself."

"Loads of intel," Michael agreed. "All at least two years old."

Rick's stomach dropped. "But—"

Michael pointed at a file. "I mean, this is about Bill Jeter," he said.

Carson made a noise. "That guy's been gone for two years at least."

Rick's eyes went wide. "Killed in action?"

"No, tripped in his bathtub," Michael said. "And this is talking about his capture like it's still news."

"But…," Rick said, trying to muster his thoughts. "There are other things…"

Michael shook his head. "Old news," he said. "All of it. How much did you pay the asset?"

Rick felt numb. "10k."

"That's not so bad, then," Michael said.

Rick looked at him. "Higgins won't be mad?"

"Oh, Higgins will be mad," Michael confirmed. "And you did just waste 10k of American taxpayer money during the worst recession in a century."

Rick stared. "Then how is that not so bad?"

Michael shrugged. "We did get a trip to Bangkok out of it."

Casey finished his last bite. "And I never pass up a trip to Bangkok."

Gaping, Rick watched as Michael got back into the car.

The engine going, Michael looked at him, Carson and Casey eyeing him too. "You coming?"

Rick wanted to say no. Rick wanted to sit in the alley and sulk. Rick wanted to kick the walls, punch them until his fists were bloody.

But he couldn't. Because his asset had left him with nothing. He'd wasted the money. He'd blown the mission.

His team had been right. Rick was a baby bird and he hadn't quite gone splat, but here he was, being hauled back into the nest with nothing but a squawk. But the more he protested, the more he sounded like the new guy he didn't want to be.

Sighing, he tried to square his shoulders, keeping his head up even as his cheeks flushed red and he climbed into the van.

-o-

Higgins was mercifully silent about the ordeal. He sighed and shook his head, and told Martinez that was all.

Rick wasn't sure what that meant, but he was fairly certain he didn't want to ask for clarification for fear that it might lead to a far worse outcome.

Higgins' unspoken reprieve didn't spare him from his teammates.

"Hey," Casey said when he came in one morning. "Where's the coffee?"

Rick stared at him. "In the coffee pot."

"Smart ass," Casey said. "I mean, why didn't you bring me coffee."

"Because I'm not your personal attendant," Rick countered, slouching over to his desk and sitting down heavily.

"Well, you may as well be," Casey said. "It's not like after your performance overseas you're ready for solo spywork."

Rick gritted his teeth and started his computer.

"That's uncalled for," Michael interjected. "Real spies get coffee all the time."

Rick glared at them. "I'm not getting you coffee."

Simms tipped his head up, lifting his sunglasses. "Best job in the house, kid," he said. "Good exercise and no one's shooting at you."

"Oh, and none of you have ever screwed up?" Rick shot back.

Casey shrugged. "I haven't."

"Our failures are different," Michael said.

"How?"

"Well, after you've completed your first solo mission, you'll understand," Michael said.

Rick's jaw locked.

"So are we getting the coffee or what?" Simms asked.

Rick took a breath; then another. He sought patience, wisdom. Because the problem was, they weren't wrong.

Rick was the new guy. The new guy got the coffee. The new guy endured the humiliation.

And Rick might always be the new guy at this rate.

-o-

It was Fay who found him in the break room. "Hey," she said. "I need you to get the ODS and bring them to Higgins office, ASAP."

Rick frowned, suddenly fearing the worst. "Why?"

Fay's dark eyes were serious. "Just trust me."

"Does this have to do with the asset in Bangkok?" Rick asked.

She nodded.

"Look, it wasn't that big of deal," he said. "We don't need the rest of the team—"

"No, really," she said. "Bring them to Higgins office. Now."

There was something in her tone, something just a bit desperate, immediate. Rick swallowed hard. "Okay," he said.

She nodded curtly, moving swiftly out.

Rick watched her go. He looked at the coffee. Whatever Fay had to say, he thought it couldn't get much worse than this.

-o-

The team wasn't happy. Rick couldn't blame them; he wasn't happy either. In Higgins' office, he tried to look relaxed, but found he couldn't stop fidgeting. Fay took control quickly, though, starting the TV screen.

"We've been going through the intel from Rick's asset," she started.

"Rick's_ bad _asset," Michael amended.

"That cost us our yearly bonus," Carson muttered.

"Speak for yourself," Casey said.

Higgins cleared his throat. "I take it you found something, Ms. Carson?"

"Yes," she said.

Rick's eyes widened hopefully. "So it wasn't all bogus?"

"Oh, it was all bogus, all right," she said. "All of it was at least two years – most of it older than that."

Rick's shoulders slumped.

"So what's the big deal then?" Michael pressed.

"This," Fay said, bringing up an image. "This is a picture from a British satellite."

The team edged just slightly closer. Michael shrugged. "Who are we looking at?"

"Alan Fredericks, an American contractor who was kidnapped three years ago," Fay explained.

"So?" Casey prompted.

"Wasn't he rescued?" Michael asked.

"He was," Fay said. "But that's not why the photo is important."

She hit a few buttons and the image got larger, focusing on the figure behind Fredericks. The black and white image was grainy, and it was hard to make out. The figure was tall and lanky, clothes hanging off a clearly too-thin frame. The brown hair was overgrown and spiky, the face thick was stubble.

Rick squinted, trying to identify the figure. He looked familiar somehow, though Rick couldn't place him.

Next to him, Michael was on his feet, Casey only a step behind. Carson was frozen, unmoving, unblinking.

There was a sudden electricity in the air; unspoken but palpable. It almost hummed, drawing everyone's attention back to the screen.

Rick shook his head finally, needing to understand. "What?" he asked.

No one looked at him. Not even Higgins.

"Son of a bitch," Michael breathed, transfixed.

Rick looked from his teammates and back to the image, saw the tired eyes and sunken cheeks. There was something there, something Rick should be able to place…but couldn't. "What?" he asked, a little more desperate now.

"That's him," Casey said, the statement so simple, so human, that Rick thought he might have imagined it.

Fay nodded. "We think so, too," she confirmed, looking back at the ODS, eyes filled with something bright.

But hope in what? A grainy satellite image in a package of useless intel? The blurred image of a man Rick kept thinking he should know?

Carson hadn't even moved and Casey's face was blank. Michael was so stiff he was practically trembling. They weren't paranoid spies for the moment; they weren't even bastards. They looked truly surprised – no, dumbstruck, shell shocked, disbelieving, guilty—

Hopeful.

Just when Rick had thought he'd seen everything from these guys, hopeful.

And yet, Rick still didn't know why. All the pieces were there, Rick's failed intel, the ODS speechless, the image of a man…

"We think it's who?" Rick prompted, feeling completely at a loss.

Michael's breath caught and he swallowed audibly. "Billy Collins," he said, the name sounded almost foreign on his tongue. "The fourth member of the ODS."

-o-

Billy Collins.

The fourth member of the ODS.

Rick had seen his picture in the file Adele had pulled. Which meant this was the man whose desk Rick was sitting in. The man with ticket stubs and bad poetry, and paperclips stapled underneath.

Billy Collins.

"Wait," Rick said, tearing his eyes from the picture and looking at his team. "You mean, he's been missing in action all this time?"

"Technically," Michael confirmed, a little shaky. When he looked at Rick, his face was pale. "He was assumed killed three years ago after a mission in North Africa."

For a moment, Rick could only blink.

Michael moved closer to the image. "We never found the body."

Casey moved in next to him. "That's because there was no body to find," he said grimly. He shook his head. "The sons of bitches must have taken him instead."

Rick shook his head, still a step behind the rest. "Who?"

"Ernesto Salazar," Carson said, still lagging behind the rest. When Rick looked back, Carson's expression was stony and he hadn't moved. Then he grimaced, almost looking nauseated. "A real gem, that one. Up to his eyeballs in counterfeiting, and he has enough money – fake or otherwise – to buy whatever the hell he wants."

"Including a CIA operative," Michael said.

From the desk, Higgins took a measured breath. "Have we confirmed that this is Operative Collins?"

Fay nodded. "Facial recognition is a match."

"It's him," Michael said. "I mean, he looks like he's been kept off his game, but it's him."

Rick looked at the screen again, trying to make the image of the bedraggled man match the photo he'd seen in the file. The light in his eyes was gone, the smile lost in the weariness of his face.

"Do we have any more current information that might confirm Operative Collins' location or condition?" Higgins asked.

"No," Fay said. "But this photo is only two years old."

"Which is a year after any of us saw him alive," Michael said. He turned to Higgins. "Salazar's keeping him alive for a reason. The son of a bitch still has him."

Higgins' worked his jaw, pursing his lips. He inclined his head. "Clearly, this is a pressing matter," he said. "We'll need to first find out if we can locate Mr. Salazar—"

He didn't say more; he didn't have to. Michael was already moving, Casey a step behind. "We're on it," Michael confirmed.

"No matter what dark hole Salazar has chosen to hide in, we'll find him," Casey agreed.

Rick watched them go, blinking as he looked at Simms. Carson didn't look back; his eyes were still focused on the screen.

At the desk, Higgins sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his head. "So apparently your first solo mission wasn't such a waste after all," he said.

Rick swallowed hard, looking back at the screen. Back at Billy Collins. Back at the man who'd sat in his desk.

The man whose void Rick was trying to fill.

Trying and failing.

His desk buddy, his ghost of a friend.

In a grainy photo that cost Rick 10k – and maybe a whole lot more – suddenly he wasn't such a ghost anymore.

-o-

In some ways, the Agency was just like a middle school – people gossiped and poked into each other's business – they just did it with more sophisticated measures and much broader implications. Here, it wasn't just if you slept with the captain of the football team, but if you compromised state secrets while playing tackle between the sheets.

So it wasn't really a surprise when the name Billy Collins was being whispered throughout the halls by the time Rick made his way back to the office. The tones were hushed, excited, eager.

And why not, Rick figured. An operative, presumed dead, still being alive? It was a big deal. They could all relate; it could be any of them. They all risked their lives for their country…so it only made sense that they shared a camaraderie with someone who had actually given it.

But it wasn't just that. It wasn't just the whispers or the hushed tones. It was the look. When Rick walked by, they watched him. Diverted their eyes. Got very quiet.

At first, he thought maybe because it had been his intel. He'd been the one who'd actually found evidence of Billy Collins' survival. He had everything to do with this revelation.

When he got back to his desk, however. When he sat down, when he looked at the familiar gouges, he realized that wasn't it at all. It wasn't that Billy had sat in Rick's desk – it was that Rick was sitting in Billy's. People weren't watching him because he might be the hero who brought Billy home.

People were watching him because he was the one who was trying to replace him.

Maybe they'd seen it all along, even if they'd never spoken it. But now that Billy Collins was alive, the discrepancy was glaring.

And the reality was pointed.

Rick wasn't the hero who might have found a missing operative.

He was the dunce who may have just found the man who belonged here more than Rick ever would.

Irony: it was a bitch.

-o-

Most days, the ODS seemed to laze around, only appearing half-committed to whatever their daily task. They were better on missions, but the daily drudgery made them seem borderline incompetent.

Not now. Everything had changed. Like a switch had been flicked, the ODS was in overdrive. There were so many tasks, Rick could hardly keep them all straight, and he was buried in paperwork before he found a chance to finally ask the obvious.

"So what happened anyway?" he asked, pausing over the intelligence file he'd been asked to go over.

Casey didn't pause in his work. Carson stubbornly didn't look up.

"It was like we said in Higgins' office," Michael supplied. "He was presumed dead after a mission in North Africa."

"Yeah, but how?" Rick said. "You guys don't strike me like the types to just leave a teammate behind without a damn good reason."

Casey stiffened and Carson seemed to shudder.

"We aren't," Michael replied, somewhat terse. "But the last time we saw Billy, he wasn't moving."

Rick shrugged. "That doesn't mean—"

"And then the entire warehouse blew up," Michael concluded, letting the force of the words settle for a moment. "Debris was scattered almost a mile. By the time we were able to get back inside, there was nothing left but ash."

It was a sober pronouncement, one Michael clearly took no joy in.

Feeling inexplicably guilty, Rick hemmed himself in. He looked down at the file – a counterfeiting operation in Namibia – then back at Michael. "So if that's the last you saw him, how did he end up in Salazar's custody?"

At that, Michael sighed. He took off his glasses, rubbing a hand over his face. When he looked at Rick again, the smugness was gone. In its place was simple exhaustion. "I don't know," he said. "Best guess is that Billy was alive when he went down and Salazar found him before we could get to him. Then Salazar probably took him out another direction before the entire thing went up."

"But why didn't you check him?" Rick pressed.

"Because the entire place was already burning, Martinez," Michael snapped. "Have you ever been in a burning building?"

"Well, no—"

"Have you ever tried to see through the smoke and climb over burning debris?"

"No, I—"

"Then you don't know," Michael said, gaze hard now. "If we could have gone back for him, we would have. You can believe that."

Casey was looking at him now, too, unyielding, but Carson didn't look up, staring hard at his desk.

"And that's what we're doing," Michael continued. "We're going back for him. And we _will _get him out. And if that's a problem—"

Rick shook his head readily. "No," he said. "That's not a problem."

Chewing his lip, he looked at his desk, trying to convince himself of that once and for all.

-o-

Rick had bought a grainy photo. He'd found proof of life.

That, however, didn't come close to creating a rescue mission.

No, that process was much more involved, and the ODS took to it without commentary or hesitation. Michael was more focused than Rick had ever seen him – and that was saying something. The man was unyielding. He didn't stop to eat or sleep; Rick wasn't even sure he saw the man go to the bathroom. He laid out papers all over the bullpen, lining them up, matching things and marking off points on a map.

Casey followed his lead without being asked. He supplemented research, bringing in new files on criminals and countries, earmarking necessary passages and crossreferencing things where he could. He was unusually helpful, though even less talkative than usual. And yet, there was a certain bounce to his step; a newfound purpose that Rick could only vaguely remember from his hazy time under the doctor's care in Bolivia.

Carson was the exception, as Carson usually was. He did whatever was asked, face pale and pinched as he worked. He was unusually awake, eyes bloodshot as he left his sunglasses behind. Rick could smell the whiffs of heavier alcohol when Simms came to work in the morning, but if this worried Michael, there was never any comment made.

The ODS didn't need comments; they didn't need words. They worked together, seamlessly in tandem. They knew each other, predicted each other's movements, complemented each other perfectly. They were efficient; they were good.

_This _Rick realized. _This _was the team they were meant to be. This was everything Rick knew they were capable of: determined, defiant, dedicated. Damn near flawless.

Because of Billy Collins.

Rick had fumbled for the better part of the year, and with one blurry snapshot, Billy Collins had done with Rick hadn't. What Rick _couldn't._

The truth was, Rick wasn't sure if he wanted to thank Billy – or if he wanted to burn the picture and everything it represented. Rick had started this mission to prove himself, to show that he_ mattered._

And here he was, proving just the opposite. Because suddenly, Rick didn't matter at all.

-o-

They barely had time to stop and lay out what they knew. Michael had always been adept at bringing plans together, but his level of focus now was unprecedented.

"Okay," he said, standing in front of the map. "Salazar's been busy the last three years, and he's got a lot of branches set up with various lieutenants around the world."

"Lackeys," Casey muttered.

"And not self sufficient enough to be a problem," he said. "And not really our main concern."

Carson frowned, scratching the back of his neck. "How do we even know where he's keeping Billy?" he said. "You said it yourself, he's got his fingers all over the world. Billy could be in any of those places."

"Salazar's smart," Michael said. "He's also an egotistical maniac. He doesn't take chances with safety, or he'd have gone belly up by now. He's keeping Billy around for a reason, and he's not going to be stupid enough to risk one of his men in charge of what is surely one of his most valuable assets."

"A CIA operative for a rainy day," Casey said. "How quaint."

And dangerous. If Salazar was keeping Billy as collateral, then he wouldn't be afraid to try to cash it in. If he thought it was for naught…

Rick swallowed, jaw tight. It wasn't worth thinking about.

Michael nodded. "Which means if we want to find Billy…"

Simms' work his jaw, expression. "We find Salazar."

There was a silence, thick and tense, and none of the others seemed keen to break it.

Cautiously, Rick said, "So have we got a lead?"

Michael shifted on his feet, looking at the map. "Better than that," he said. "We've got a concrete location."

"Panama," Casey said, face twisted with disgust.

"A free trade zone," Rick realized.

"Exactly," Michael said.

Rick shook his head. "We should still be able to get him, right?"

"We would except for this," Michael said, pulling a file and putting it to the top of the pile.

Rick leaned forward, studying it. "The treasury department?"

"I thought those Secret Service nobodies didn't bother doing real work," Casey said with a huff.

"I can't tell how much they're doing on this one, either," Michael said. "Apparently they picked up the case against Salazar about a year ago, and it's still active."

"And we can't cross jurisdictional lines, can we?" Rick said.

"Legally, no," Michael said.

Rick pressed his lips together, almost afraid to ask. "But off the record?"

"Easy, Martinez," Michael said. "I know how much you love unsanctioned missions, but we're not out of options just yet on this one."

Rick's nose scrunched up. "What options do we have?"

"Never overlook the obvious," Casey advised.

Rick was still at a loss.

Michael smirked. "We ask," he said.

Rick blinked, waiting for more. "That's it?"

Michael shrugged. "We ask nicely?"

"You guys have never asked nicely for anything as long as I've known you."

Carson made a face, but still didn't look up.

Casey inclined his head. "Should we remind you that you haven't known us very long?"

"Trust me, Martinez," Michael said, patting Rick on the arm. "There are still a few things you can learn from us."

A week ago, Rick would have doubted that. But now, seeing them in action, seeing them with purpose, he was willing to believe it.

He just didn't know if he'd still have a place on the team long enough to find out.

-o-

When Michael left to go to the treasury, Rick hunkered down to do paperwork. But Michael lingered at his desk. "You coming?"

Rick looked up, surprised. "Coming where?"

"To the treasury with me," Michael said, as if it were obvious.

Perplexed, Rick tilted his head. "You want me to come with you?"

Mentally, Rick went through the possible outcomes, wondering if there was dirty work waiting for him with such a trip; possibly humiliation. If someone had to be fed to the wolves…

Michael scoffed. "Just thought you might like to come," he said. "If you're not interested—"

He meant it. At least, he seemed to. It was possible that Michael was lying to him, still setting him up, but somehow, Rick didn't think so. Something had changed when Billy Collins was shown to be alive – something hard to define, but something impossible to ignore. His team was suddenly alive, too. Fully functioning.

And inclusive. Rick suddenly wasn't the tagalong little brother; he was wanted, included. Valued.

It was a bittersweet thing. To think he'd gotten everything he worked for this year just in time to bring back the man who really belonged here.

Yet, he couldn't say no. Not now. Not for his team.

Not for Billy Collins.

"No, no," Rick said, pushing to his feet. "I'm coming."

Michael regarded him, nodding with something that looked like pride. "Let's go."

Rick hurried to catching up, his steps falling in tandem as they walked out together.

-o-

Michael had a plan.

Normally, Rick was the last to figure that out, but this time, he understood it the minute Michael pulled out the robot as a peace offering. They had come to ask politely, but Michael had never expected an answer. Which was why he brought a monitoring device to hack their system and get the answer for them.

It was the stupidest thing Rick had ever heard. When they got caught – and they would get caught – the Secret Service could arrest them.

So it was stupid. A stunt that would ruin them with its outrageous, audacious, blatant stupidity.

Yet, back at Langley, watching the intel pour in, Rick had to admit that it might have been the smartest one, too.

-o-

With unwitting help from the treasury, getting a positive lock on Salazar's newest base of operations was easy. From there, they just had to concoct a plan to get a meeting with Salazar and set up operations to both gather enough evidence to take Salazar into custody and execute a comprehensive rescue operation.

The details were risky, and the ODS would have to cash in a few favors, but no one hesitated. They'd go in, expose a weakness in Salazar's current ink supplier, offer their services as a replacement, and then close a deal that hooked Salazar and got enough evidence for prosecution.

Then they could break in, dismantle the operation, rescue Billy and arrest Salazar.

It sounded easy.

Go in, get Salazar, get Billy, get out.

Rick was discovering there was a lot he didn't know about the ODS, but one thing he knew without a doubt was that nothing was ever easy.

The other thing he knew was - that had never stopped them before.

And it wouldn't stop them now.

-o-

Identifying Salazar's compound was only the start. From there, they needed to develop full covers and secure private travel. Plus, they needed to obtain high grade counterfeit ink, which required more than a few favors, all while prepping the paperwork to fly to Central America.

Each day, Rick felt his nerves mounting. They'd undertaken some pretty crazy missions before, but this one felt different.

This one was different.

Gone was the ODS' nonchalance. There was no more indifference or lackadaisical dispositions. Rick was no longer the first one there or the last to leave. Michael never seemed to leave, always hunched over and working at his desk. Carson didn't appear to be sleeping, face increasingly haggard and movements sluggish as he took to drinking entire pots of coffee just to stay alert.

Casey showed no signs of strain, and he spent every spare moment training. In the gym, doing cardio, lifting weights. Calisthenics, stretching, massage: everything.

At lunch, he even ate with newfound purpose. Devouring high protein meals with whole grain carbs, drinking particular amounts of water with no pausing for conversation.

"You nervous?" Rick asked.

Casey paused, almost surprised. "Are you speaking to me?"

Rick shrugged. "Yeah."

Casey stared at him. "I don't get nervous."

"Then why are you acting so intense?"

This time, Casey blinked. "Because," he said. "This is a mission with no margin for error. Success is the only acceptable outcome."

"But isn't that the way it is for every mission?"

Casey lifted his eyebrows. "We're going in to rescue a fellow operative who has been imprisoned for three years," he said. "An operative that our shortsightedness wrote off for dead. This isn't national security. This isn't international affairs. This is one of our own. Literally. I know you're new to this, but I don't think you're that new."

It was as much as Rick had ever heard Casey say. And it wasn't that there was emotion – it was devoid of fear and anger and guilt – but it was focused. Utterly intent. Casey had always been impressive. Now, Rick realized, he was damn near perfect. As close to infallible as any human could be.

Rick smiled wryly. "Billy Collins must be worth a lot," he said.

Casey snorted. "Don't be sentimental," he said.

Rick shrugged. "He was your teammate."

"He is my teammate," Casey said harshly, pushing his chair back with a scrape and standing. "Which is why I won't sit here and indulge your touching heart to heart. If we're going to bring him back, we don't have a moment to lose. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

With that, Casey left.

Still sitting, Rick started after him. It wasn't unexpected, he supposed. Brothers in arms, leave no man behind. The ODS had left a man behind, and as little as Rick knew about them, he knew that wasn't in their nature. There would be guilt, even if Casey didn't show it, and there would be fear and hope and _everything._

Rick could understand that. He could even respect it. But the niggling of doubt was growing now, making a yawning hole in his stomach so deep he could fall in. Casey said it, after all. And Casey didn't have time for lies or platitudes; just the truth.  
_  
He is my teammate.  
_  
Rick just wasn't sure what that made him.

-o-

The ODS was officially on Billy's case, but the rest of the Agency seemed to be apprised to every development. The chatter was bad enough; the wayward looks were marginally tolerable. The gushing, however—

"Billy Collins!" Blanke exclaimed, positively invigorated.

Rick nodded meekly, not pausing as he walked down the hall.

Blanke kept pace. "I just can't believe it," he said. "I mean, I guess I can. If anyone can survive, it's_ him._"

At that, Rick pulled up and looked at Blanke squarely. "What was he like anyway?"

Blanke stopped with him, eyes wide. "Billy Collins?"

Rick nodded.

"Oh, well," Blanke continued. "The man was a legend. There wasn't anyone he couldn't charm – man, woman or person with power. How do you think a former MI6 agent managed to get a job at the CIA?"

Rick blinked. "Wait, he was MI6?"

"Oh, sure!" Blanke said. "You meant you didn't know?"

Rick didn't know. Rick didn't know anything. He'd spent this entire week reading files, putting together a cover, prepping to travel to rescue a man he knew nothing about. Michael didn't have time to answer questions; Casey refused to acknowledge them. Carson looked half dead most days, and Rick didn't have the heart to bother him. The rest of Billy's file was still off limits to him, so even though he had a name and face, his desk buddy had been more elusive than ever.

"Well, my goodness," Blanke said. "Billy Collins was a hotshot for the Brits until something happened—"

"Something?"

Blanke shrugged. "No one knows except the Director himself and Michael. But it was enough to get him kicked out of the country – can't step a foot back there."

"And we took him on?" Rick prompted.

"We did," Blanke said, with a proud nod. "And let me tell you, it was no mistake. Billy Collins was an amazing operative. Smart, funny – and handsome, too." Blanke cut off, shaking his head with a far off look of contentment. "We'll all be glad to have him back. The entire Agency was better off for his presence."

Considering what Rick had seen the last week – from the lowly techs to the director himself – Rick didn't doubt that.

Blanke sighed. "The ODS was unstoppable back then," he said. "There was nothing they couldn't do. With Billy Collins, they didn't just do the impossible. They made it look easy."

Rick couldn't help it – his shoulders slumped.

Blanke patted him on the shoulder. "Oh, don't worry," he said. "You can hang out with me and the others! I try not to look at it as not having a department, but that I'm a free agent. No department rules to tie me down. I can go where I'm needed – and I'd be happy to show you the ropes."

Rick nodded feebly. "Yeah," he said. "Sure."

Suddenly, Michael rounded the corner. He saw Rick, then he saw Blanke. "Don't you have a supply closet to hide in?" he asked.

Blanke came to alert, nodding. "Just talking to Rick here."

"Talking? From the look of it, you're tormenting him," Michael said. "That's our job." He stopped, looking Rick in the eye. "You coming?"

It was a funny offer, temporary in its reprieve. Michael was inviting him to come, to be part of the team…but for how long?

Following after Michael, Rick wondered if buying the intel in Bangkok was the worst mistake he'd ever made.

-o-

Sometime in the midday, Rick found himself alone. Michael was in a meeting with Higgins; Casey was off training. Carson had slunk off to who-knew-where, and Rick was alone with a stack of files.

And his desk.

Over the months, he'd found comfort in his desk. He'd found solace in its familiarity. He'd memorized the marks and scuffs, sorted through the fake bottom and organized the odd collection of disparate mementos.

Only it wasn't his desk. It wasn't even his ghost buddy's desk. It was _Billy Collins' _desk.

They were his scuff marks. They were his gouges. The fake bottom, the ticket stubs, the poetry: they were his.

Just like this was _Billy Collins' _team.

He'd been missing, presumed dead for three years, and it was all still his. People talked about Billy Collins with awe, reverence, hope. The ODS changed immediately, turned from bitter, jaded and distant to passionate, determined and vigorous.

It seemed petty, to resent a man who had suffered in the line of duty. Rick couldn't begrudge the man a long overdue rescue mission. He couldn't even deny the ODS the chance to make right a mistake that had clearly broken them all.

But this was more than that. This wasn't just a rescue mission; this was_. Billy Collins._ The man who made everything make sense. The man who_belonged._ In the Agency, at this desk, in this team.

The man Rick would never be.

And for the first time since Rick had first sat down and ran his fingers over the marred surface of his desk, he hated Billy Collins.

-o-

Rick hated Billy Collins, but that didn't mean that he wasn't going to do everything in his power to bring him home. Rick had resolved himself to this from the beginning; this was the job he'd signed up to do. No matter the cost.

If it cost him his life, so be it. If it cost him his career, that was okay. If it cost him his place in the Agency, then Rick had to accept that.

He'd just never thought _this._

"I'm afraid the treasury will issue arrest warrants if any of you interfere with their investigation of Salazar," Higgins explained. Their chartered plane was fueled and ready to go, and Rick was already halfway up the stairs even as Michael stood, face to face with Higgins on the tarmac. "If you go on this mission, I can't protect you."

The implicit ultimatum was clear. They could save Billy Collins…or their careers.

For Rick, there was hesitation. The irony was not lost on him – risking his career for the man who would take away all he'd worked for – it was something, to say the least.

But for once, Michael didn't think. Casey didn't grunt. Carson didn't flinch.

His team was going.

And Rick would go, too. As long as it was still his team, he'd follow them anywhere.

"Thanks for the heads up," Michael said, smiling just a little.

Higgins shook his head, not quite disgusted, but tired. There was no right answer here, and for the first time since joining the Agency, Rick knew how he felt.

In the end, everyone would do what they had to do. Higgins would play the heavy; the ODS would go to Panama; and Rick would follow.

God help him, Rick would follow them to Panama, to Salazar, to the mission that could cost him everything.

To Billy Collins.

-o-

In the air, no one dared to speak. Casey seemed to hunker down, eyes closed but not sleeping, in what Rick could only assume was some type of meditation. Michael sat with his files in his lap, reading and reading, thick-rimmed glasses low on his nose. Carson splayed himself in a seat across the aisle from Rick, sipping a beer from the in-flight supply.

Rick sat, trying to get comfortable. For a while, he tried to sleep, but when the whispers of bad poetry invaded his subconscious, he didn't figure it was worth it. After that, he watched the land pass below, the rise and fall of cities and countryside and then the open waters of the Gulf.

Rick wasn't skittish, and he wasn't superstitious, but nothing about this mission sat well with him. Jaw tight, he looked at his teammates again, one to the next to the next—

And found Carson watching him.

Rick flushed a little, offering a small smile.

"You look grim, kid," Carson mused.

Rick shrugged. "Sort of a high stakes mission."

"You mean the part where we're going to get arrested if we do something wrong?"

"Or the part where we're rescuing a CIA operative who's been held for three years," Rick said. "We don't even know what condition he'll be in."

And that was part of it, no matter how much Rick didn't want to admit it. He would do anything for his team, but the fact was, no one deserved to be forgotten. No one deserved to be a memory, a legend, a ghost in a desk.

The photo hadn't been overly clear, but the experts had agreed that Billy had been treated somewhat humanely – as far as someone who was incarcerated illegally could be, Rick supposed. Which was to say he was being fed and probably was allowed to go the bathroom and probably shower from time to time. There hadn't been evidence of extensive abuse, but that didn't say much.

He could have been tortured, on and off. And not all types of torture had the same physical hallmarks. The picture had been too grainy to make out his psychological state – there hadn't even been a good look at his eyes to see if there was awareness and, if so, how much.

He could have been fed the same slop, kept in a small, isolated cell. He could have been deprived of interaction and stimulus. He could be a far cry from the legend so many people bragged about in the halls of Langley.

It made Rick's resentment so very wrong. Because Rick had the man's desk, his team, and Billy Collins was a prisoner. For all Rick knew, Billy Collins could be dead.

Carson sighed, taking another drink. "Billy's the kind of guy who defies the odds," he said. "I was the last one to see him, you know."

This made Rick sit up straighter, turning and looking at Carson in earnest.

The older operative was looking at the ceiling, a distant look in his eyes. "Last time I saw him, he was pale, bleeding and unmoving in a burning building. I thought there was no way in hell he could be alive."

"So you left him?" Rick asked.

Carson glanced at him, rueful. "I didn't have a choice."

"So you really didn't think-?"

Bitterly, Carson laughed. "Kid, I left my teammate to die," he said. "I left Billy Collins. I know that doesn't a hell of a lot to you, but it was the hardest damn thing I ever did. There's not a day that goes by that I don't regret it…"

To that, Rick had no reply. What could he say? What comfort could he offer? Spies made decision in the field – life or death decisions. They put their trust in their teammates above all else. One thing the ODS had shown Rick more than the rest, was that the lives of the people around you came first. It was why Michael had run fifteen miles in Bolivia. It was why Casey had threatened to kill people in Russia.

It was why Rick was still here, looking for a man he didn't know who threatened to take everything away from him. Because you gave everything for your team.

For Carson and the others to walk away was one thing.

For them to be wrong…

Suddenly a lot of things made sense. The quiet, the reservation. It wasn't that they didn't trust Rick – it was that they didn't trust themselves. They'd lost one teammate, the thought of losing another was likely more than they knew how to deal with.

Looking Carson, Rick's stomach twisted with guilt. As hard as this was for him, it was harder for his team.

"We're going to find him," Rick said, with sudden certainty.

Carson looked at him, his expression inscrutable. "Yeah," he said, wistful. "I know."

"So, there," Rick said. "You'll get to make it right."

Carson nodded, downing the last bit of his drink. "I suppose I will," he said. He lifted his eyebrows. "The redemption of Carson Simms." He shook his head. "I'm going to need another drink."

With that, he got up, and Rick watched him leave. His eyes lingered for a moment, looking at Michael and Casey again in turn.

They'd all get their shot at redemption – no matter what the cost.

-o-

On the ground, the ODS didn't waste any time. Michael had arranged for a transport to take them to the motel, where they checked in under their aliases. Once inside, they set about, securing the room and sweeping it for potential compromise. Rick took to setting up their equipment, and by the time he was done, Michael had a map spread out on the table, files in hand.

"With a little help from counterfeiting, we have enough ink to make a sales pitch to Salazar," he said. He glanced at Rick. "I'm going to have you spearheading this part of the operation. None of us had much direct contact with Salazar back in North Africa, but I'd rather not take any chances that he ID's us."

Rick nodded. "I'm ready for it," he said.

"Good," Michael replied. "We need him to buy so we can have enough evidence to arrest him. We can't have a circumstantial case. We need the charges against Salazar to stick."

"Yeah, or we're going to get arrested," Casey interjected snidely.

Carson grunted. "We're probably going to get arrested anyway."

"Not if we have a clear case and the plates of Salazar's operation," Michael said. "So this meeting is to secure the evidence."

"I thought you guys already had enough on Salazar," Rick said. "You were after him in North Africa."

Michael's face paled, just for a moment. "We lost all of it in the explosion. Billy had the important things with him."

And Billy had gone missing – taking the case with Salazar with him.

"And the plates?" Rick asked.

Michael didn't hesitate. "Our remote scouting suggests that Salazar only has one property on the island – a large compound," he explained. "He has his house and his factory there."

"Convenient way to avoid outside exposure," Casey remarked.

"And a convenient way for us to complete the second and third parts of our mission," Michael said. "We'll be heading to the compound anyway to look for Billy—"

"So we'll get the plates at the same time," Rick realized. Then he paused. "But if we take down Salazar's operation, won't he cut town?"

"Of course he will," Michael said. "Which is why we'll have every airport on alert to catch him when he tries to leave the country."

"If the idiots over in the Secret Service get to make an arrest, they might even feel nice enough to not press charges," Casey said.

"And if they don't, we'll still have the plates," Michael concluded.

Rick had to admit, it was well thought out. It wasn't perfect, but this was the ODS – nothing was perfect. It wouldn't be easy, but it could work. They could arrest Salazar, stop his operation, rescue Billy Collins and salvage their careers.

Or it could go horribly wrong.

Either way.

The fact that that hardly gave Rick pause probably meant something. He was really starting to fit in.

Just in time to not fit at all.

Rick nodded, resolute. "Okay," he said. "I'm ready."

Michael held his gaze and nodded back. "Good," he said. "We'll get this going first thing tomorrow. We found a local watering hole that Salazar frequents, and we're only going to have one shot."

"That's all we need," Rick affirmed.

Michael's lips quirked into a smile. "Then let's get some rest."

Casey nodded, already settled down on a bed. Carson, however, meandered toward the mini bar.

Michael gave him a quizzical look. "You sure that's a good idea?"

Opening the fridge, Carson pulled out a bottle of something clearly alcoholic. "Man, you're asking me to put it all on the line tomorrow," he said. "We're going to get Billy. If there's ever been a time for a drink…"

Michael's eyes narrowed. It was a curious gesture. As far as Rick could tell, Carson had been a functional drunk for as long as he'd been assigned to the ODS. Neither Michael or Casey had said anything about it. But this, like so much else in the ODS, was shifting.

"We just don't have room for error," Michael said.

With a snort, Carson laid himself out on a bed, knocking his head back to take a long swig. "You really think you have to tell me that?" he asked.

Michael had no reply. Instead, he looked back at Rick. "Get some sleep," he said, the order quiet.

Rick nodded. "I think I'll just shower tonight."

"Sounds good," Michael said.

Rick lingered for a moment, watching Michael who was still watching Simms. Simms closed his eyes, taking another drink, and for a moment, it was entirely too much. There was something wrong but Rick couldn't place it.

He shook himself and continued to the bathroom. It was just nerves, he told himself. They were all nervous, and with good reason.

But they could do this. Michael and Casey and Carson and Rick. They could do this.

More than that, they would.

Rick promised himself that.

-o-

In the car, going to see Salazar, Rick was nervous. He couldn't stop fidgeting, thinking of how everything could go horribly wrong.

But when he was there, when he was face to face with the man who had hurt the ODS more than anyone else, suddenly he was nervous. He wasn't afraid.

He was certain.

Sometimes when a baby bird left the nest, it was too soon and he went splat.

Sometimes when a baby bird left the nest, it flew.

Rick didn't just fly – he soared.

His lies were perfect; his delivery was flawless. Salazar believed him, hook, line and sinker.

He took the ink; he said he'd be in contact.

They had their case.

And now there was no turning back.

-o-

They regrouped at the hotel. The focus and determination had given way to anticipation. The tension between them was taut; unyielding. Rick didn't dare speak or move without being told for fear of shattering it.

Michael checked and rechecked. Casey stretched, each muscle one at a time. Carson drank and drank until they ran out of alcohol.

Finally, Michael stood, hands at his sides and nodding. "Are we ready?" he asked.

Casey looked at him, Carson threw his empty can on the floor.

Rick stood tall, met Michael's gaze. "Let's go get Billy Collins."

Michael smiled. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

-o-

The approach was the hardest part. Salazar's compound was out in the middle of nowhere, and there were no major access roads. If they crossed paths with one of Salazar's cars on the way out, they'd have virtually no means of hiding who they were, especially since Rick had made contact with Salazar just hours before.

They were armed, of course, but using deadly force would only compound their problems back home. It was a last resort, and the fact was, all of it was a risk they had to take. If Rick was squeamish about that, he was in too far now to back out.

A few miles out, they ditched the car, hiding it in a grove of trees as best they could. It wasn't much, but it was something.

At this point, they had to take anything.

-o-

The next leg was on foot, and they moved fast. A year together, and their movements were mostly honed. They moved fluidly, easing their way closer, two me on guard, two traversing the distance. The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached the fence, and with a few snips, they were in.

-o-

Inside, Rick felt his heart pick up its pace. He followed, keeping low to the ground and staying the shadows as best he could. Michael led them in a circuitous route, pressing along buildings and using natural barriers to hide themselves as best they could. There was security, but from what intelligence they'd gained, it wasn't too high tech. This far out, Salazar was counting on the fact that no one would dare make an assault because they'd surely be killed trying to leave.

Salazar didn't know the ODS.

Sometimes, Rick wondered if he knew them either.

But there wasn't time to think about that. There wasn't time to think about anything.

They made it in the inner courtyards, away from the palatial home where they all silently agreed, was no place for a CIA captive. Instead, they were starting their search in the industrial portion of the compound, where warehouses and garages dotted the landscape.

Moving forward, Michael pulled them back abruptly, and as Rick pressed his back to a truck, he realized why.

Voices. Footsteps.

Feeling shaky, Rick peeked behind him, barely catching a sight of the guards as they mad their way back toward the house. At the end of the truck, Casey had a better vantage point, and he moved forward, ducked low.

"Two guards, no visual contact," he reported.

Simms came up behind him, face contorted. "Sons of bitches had a plate," he said.

"Mess hall?" Rick suggested.

"One plate?" Casey queried.

Michael shook his head. "It's a secure building; one plate for one hostage," he said. "I'm betting he's in there."

Lifting up, Rick strained to look. It was a nondescript building, smaller than the others but still large. It was hard to imagine it as a prison; it was equally hard to imagine it as a home.

To think, Billy Collins might be in there. Smiling; writing bad poetry. Was he still waiting for rescue? Had he given up hope?

Three years.  
_  
He does flinch or flee  
because he knows, that after all,  
there's worse fates than to be  
A star engraved upon a wall.  
_  
Rick gritted his teeth. There were worse fates, but there were better ones, too.

"Okay, then," Rick said. "What are we waiting for?"

Michael tilted his head. "Absolutely nothing," he said. "Come on, then."

And they were off.

-o-

The last distance was short. Rick didn't even tire crossing it. But as he waited at the door, lingering as Michael picked the lock, he felt as though he'd spent his entire year at Langley getting to this point, his entire_ life._

And then, Michael opened the door.


	6. SECTION FIVE

A/N: And finally, a team reunion is in order. Though it may not go smoothly...

**SECTION FIVE  
**

Inside, the room wasn't what Rick had been expecting. It wasn't exactly better – though it didn't look like a prison cell like Rick might have thought it would. But there was something oddly disconcerting about it, nonetheless.

The interior was dim. The floor was bare cement, and dirty at that. There was light from high windows, though none of them seemed to be open and the entire area smelled musty. On one end, there were some crates and what appeared to be an open bathroom, complete with a rusty sink and a dilapidated toilet. The shower was nothing but a spicket over a drain, and there was one table that seemed to be leaning precariously to one side.

Rick took this in, and made a mental note of its general functionality but certain lack of, well, anything else. It was good enough for an outhouse, maybe. A place for day laborers to wash off at the end of a long day. Maybe an emergency changing place in case something got hairy on the manufacturing floor.

Then Rick saw the bed.

It looked out of place, shoved unceremoniously against the wall in the middle of the room. The temperature was uncomfortably balmy, and with the windows closed, it was stifling. Rick's nose detected a hint of human body odor, and his stomach turned slightly, but he couldn't turn back now.

Literally.

Casey was standing guard, right behind him with his hands up at the ready. Michael had rushed forward ahead of them all. Carson stood in front of Rick, utterly still and stiff as he stared, seemingly frozen and unable to move.

Peeking around him, Rick saw the flaking metal frame of the so-called bed first, then the tattered blanket and dirty white sheets, hastily shoved under the mattress, making it lumpy and off kilter. There was a figure on there, but it was turned away from them and curled up, the lanky figure clearly too long for the small twin frame. From what Rick could see, the figure wearing a nondescript shirt and ill-fitted pants. His feet were bare, shoulders bony through the thin material.

Michael stopped short, mouth open.

No one moved; no one blinked.

All the searching; all the wondering; everything.

Finally, Michael said, "Billy."

And the figure moved, slow, stiff movements, craning his head and looking back. The dark hair was shaggy, in disheveled tuffs, a poorly kept beard somewhat shaggy on the pale features. The blue eyes were dull and tired, set deep in the aged face, which regarded the ODS with persistent indifference.

Then, something shifted. The eyes narrowed and focused, and the man sucked in, the breath catching in his throat as realization dawned.

"Either I'm hallucinating," the man said, voice scratchy with disuse and ragged with exhaustion, "or I do believe my rescue has finally arrived."

-o-

Just like that, the tension split and the anticipation gave way. Suddenly, there was relief, so palpable that Rick could feel it throbbing through him with his pulsing heart beat.

Michael recovered first, stepping forward and grinning. "Sorry we're late," he said.

Billy sat up awkwardly on the bed, swinging his legs over the side. "I know how you all are," he said, the Scottish accent so thick that he was almost hard to understand. "You enjoy your bloody entrances."

Michael shrugged, moving around to the far side of the bed where Rick could see now that Billy was handcuffed. It was a long chain – enough to roll over, maybe even to stand – but no more than that. "This is a bit much, even for us," Michael admitted.

Casey skirted by Rick, making short work of the distance. "In our defense, you did a very convincing impression of being dead," he said. "Otherwise we would have come sooner."

Michael unclenched something, and the handcuffed popped open, falling away from Billy's skinny wrist. The Scotsman looked down at it, a little shocked. When he looked up again, his eyes were wet, the gratitude plain on his features. "I can't say I blame you," he said. "For a while, I thought I was dead, too. The rest of the time, I mostly just wished it."

Michael clapped him firmly on the shoulder, holding for a moment as he looked Billy fully in the eyes. "It's been too long."

Billy chuckled, a throaty sound. "I imagine it's been longer for me, mate," he quipped.

Michael nodded. "That it has," he agreed.

Shakily, Billy got to his feet, Michael lingering right by his side. He teetered for a moment but Casey caught him, shaking his hand and pulling him close in the approximation of a hug. Billy returned the gesture, beaming.

"Affection from Casey Malick," he mused. "Now I'm not sure I've been rescued; I think rather I've died and gone to heaven."

Casey smirked, pulling away. "Nice to see that three years of captivity haven't improved your sense of humor."

Billy inclined his head. "They've tried to break me, but my Scottish disposition is too stubborn," he said. "Though I dare say all my efforts to be amusing are lost on this lot. Their sense of humor is a notch below yours, and don't even get me started on their lack of literary depth."

"Only you could criticize how little they've read when they've been keeping you in squalor for three years," Michael said.

Billy shrugged. "A little incarceration is no excuse to let myself to go to waste," he said. Then he made a face. "But I would admit I could use a_ real_shower sometime."

Michael nodded toward the door. "We can take care of that once we get out of here." He glanced to Rick and Carson. "You two are in charge of getting Billy back to the drop point, while Casey and I—"

Billy's eyes turned to them, flitting past Rick and settling on Carson. His face brightened. "Carson," he said, interrupting Michael's plans. "You old blighter, you_ are _still here."

Next to Rick, Carson took a staggering breath, his face creasing in apprehension before he laughed lightly. "Can't get rid of me that easily," he said.

Billy crossed the distance, enveloping the man in a hug. Rick could see Carson's body tense, his arms awkward before he returned it, patting Billy on the back.

Pulling away, Billy was grinning even wider than before. "It's been bloody lonely without your antics," he said.

Carson looked pained for a moment, but then he shrugged as cavalier as he could. "I could say the same," he said. "Office just ain't the same without you running your trap."

Billy flushed, and then he turned, eyes settling on Rick. He gave Rick a once over and then nodded in approval. "Stout, brave-hearted, ever-noble," he assessed. He glanced toward the rest of the ODS. "My replacement?"

Rick found himself stuttering. Up close, Billy Collins wasn't exactly what Rick had been expecting. He looked vaguely similar to the man he'd seen in the photo, though he'd lost weight and was clearly out of shape. He'd been fed and allowed to bathe, but neither had been a priority for his captors. There were no obvious signs of overt abuse, just a bedraggled appearance and a slouch to his shoulders.

And Rick had to wonder how anyone who had been imprisoned for three years was this upbeat, this forgiving. There was no blame, no condemnation. Just relief. And gratitude.

When he tried to think about this man in his prime, as an asset fully trained and fed, it was daunting. Maybe Billy Collins was every bit the legend the rumor mill at the CIA made him out to be.

Rick just knew he couldn't even come close. No wonder he'd never fit in with the ODS. He'd been replacing Billy Collins. Even hungry and dirty and lonely, the man exuded everything a good agent should be.

Feebly, Rick tried to smile. "Rick Martinez," he supplied awkwardly.

Billy looked back him. "A Mexicano, then," he said. "Bueno! I always said our little team could use some more flair."

"Puerto Rican, actually," Rick said.

"Ah, I stand corrected," Billy said. He leaned forward. "I do hope they haven't been too rough on you. The ODS is hell for rookies."

Rick grunted. "Tell me about it."

"Oh, I can," Billy commiserated. "And I will. But I do believe someone said something of a rescue to be had."

Michael stepped closer, moving himself back into the conversation. "You bet," he said. "Carson and Rick here are going to take you back to the car," he said. He nodded toward the exit. "We're parked a few miles down the road, it'll be a haul, but I think you'll be fine—"

Billy shook his head, suddenly quite serious. "What about Salazar?" he said. "If you've found me, then you've got a lead on him, too."

Casey stepped up next to Michael. "Leave that bastard to us," he said.

"Whatever charges you think you have, you're going to need to nab his operation, too," Billy said. "You'll never get inside the private house, and if you don't take his printing plates with you, he'll be able to start up again in no time."

"We're ahead of you on this one," Michael said. "We're going to take the plates today, and then file charges against Salazar. When he tries to flee the country, he'll be arrested by airport authorities, making our jobs a whole lot easier."

Billy nodded. "I've almost forgotten how thorough a plan by Michael Dorset can be," he said. "Good to know you're still a paranoid bastard."

"And we're wasting time," Casey interjected. "As nice as this reunion is, I'd like to make sure we get out of here."

"Casey's right," Michael said. "Billy, go with Carson and Rick—"

Billy shook his head. "I'm not leaving now."

Michael's expression flickered. "We really don't have time to argue—"

"Then don't," Billy said. "I'm going with you."

Michael sighed. "You're in no condition—"

"Rubbish," Billy said. "I'm not in any condition to make a hike in the afternoon sun either, but I'm still good for that."

Michael swallowed. "Let us get you out of here," he said, a little emphatic now.

Billy held his gaze. "And let me take down the bastards who kept me here," he said, eyes intense. "Besides, who here actually knows where the plates are?"

Michael couldn't reply; none of them could. Rick had read the file; they had good intelligence. They could make a good guess. But they couldn't be sure.

"Right," Billy said. "So score one for the long-repressed captive. I'm ready for my vindication."

Michael sighed, and Rick felt himself tense. "Billy," Michael said.

Billy didn't back down. "Let me put this experience to good use," he said, a hint of pleading in his voice now. "I don't want to think I spent three years curled up and useless for no gain whatsoever. This is still my mission to complete as much as it is yours. Let's do it – together."

Rick's throat felt tight, and he could hear the poetry in his head, Billy's Scottish accent bringing it to life.  
_  
Brave companions  
lead the charge;  
three warriors  
of certain heart  
_  
It had been bad poetry, but the truest intentions. _This _was Billy Collins.

And Michael had no choice but to nod in acquiescence. "Fine," he said. "But I'm still the one in charge here."

Billy's mouth turned up into a grin again, a mischievous light flashing in his eyes. "Of course," he said. He gestured to the door. "Then after you, my fearless leader."

-o-

Things were going really well, which was why Rick was getting increasingly uncertain about this mission. It wasn't just that they had no real cover on an enemy compound. It wasn't even that he'd just found the one person who could really usurp his position. It was that the mission was going well. Almost flawlessly.

Missions didn't go _well _for the ODS, and they certainly never went flawlessly. Rick was fairly certain that this was a sure sign of impending disaster.

Unfortunately, no one else seemed to share his trepidation. Now that they'd found Billy, his team was acting cool, calm and confident, moving without questioning anything and facing danger like they were damn near invincible. The reticence, the cynicism – it was all gone. _This _was the ODS.

And Rick had never felt more apart from them.

Yet, he'd never been so helpless to follow them by their sheer aura alone. They were so damn charismatic that they could have talked Rick into anything.

And they did.

"Okay," Michael said, looking out across the grounds. "Tell me what I'm looking at."

Billy sidled in close beside Michael, not missing a beat. He listed a little bit, and he seemed to be panting already, but he squinted out across the sun-lit compound with a nod. "There," he said, pointing to a larger building a ways away. "That's the main processing center where most of the bills are finished and stored for shipment."

"So we'll need to raid that," Michael concluded.

"More like we need to blow it up," Billy said.

Michael turned, a little surprised. "You've never been one for fireworks."

Billy smirked. "Three years can change a man."

"Clearly for the better," Casey remarked dryly. He was pressed on the opposite side of the door, Carson lingering behind him while Rick stood conspicuously on his toes to try to get a better view around Billy's height. "It's been far too long since I've staged a good explosion."

"Just make sure it gets the job done," Billy said. "We need less smoke, more flame in this one. The money should go up quickly, but if you want to drain Salazar's inventory that's the building to go after."

Michael nodded. "Sounds easy enough."

"That part, perhaps," Billy conceded. "But the plates are already packed away, I'd wager. You'll need to hit the office to nab those, too."

"And where's the office?" Michael asked.

Billy strained a bit to see but pointed to another building, farther out than the first and smaller. "Over there."

"I don't mean to sound pessimistic," Carson interjected. "But how do we know the plates are even there?"

Billy turned. "I admit, there is some conjecture involved," he said. "But Salazar is quite fond of his routines, and he has a major shipment going out from that warehouse. He's meticulous, though. He never keeps the plates with the money when production is not underway. Too big of a risk. If he's got buyer's coming, then the plates are stored in that building."

Rick had to admit, that made sense. The money was his product, but the plates were critical to his success. They were the golden goose, as it were.

"So we hit the office after we burn the money," Rick concluded.

Billy looked at him, grinning. "Simple and direct," he said. "I like it. Clearly they picked well when they recruited someone to fill my shoes."

Rick felt himself blushing a little, but then he realized his error in thinking. He met Billy's gaze, and the Scottish man seemed to be waiting for him to complete his thought process. "But once the money's on fire, we'll have every person on the compound alerted." He paused, thinking. "So we go after the plates first?"

"Close," Billy said, his grin returning. "But I think the safest route is to split up. One team goes after the money; the other gets the plates. We all leave together, the mission a total success."

It sounded reasonable, but Michael was already shaking his head, Casey's face pulled taut. "No," Michael said flatly. "We're not separating."

"Because I'd like to think we've learned from our mistakes," Casey added.

Rick realized their concerns. His understanding of the mission to North Africa was still scant at best, but they'd been separated then. They'd gotten split up and they'd ended up leaving Billy behind. Maybe if they'd all been together, they could have got to Billy in time. Maybe…

Billy sighed, rolling his eyes. "This is different."

"Is it?" Michael asked. "A surefire plan to takedown Salazar that involves us splitting into two groups. Oh, and fire. And explosions. Sounds_ really_different."

Billy set his jaw firmly, eyes serious. "What happened in North Africa—"

"Was a mistake that none of us want to relive," Michael concluded, the tension ratcheting up again. Casey was willfully silent, Carson stiff. Rick shifted awkwardly, feeling hopelessly out of place.

Wetting his lips, Billy's gaze was unwavering. "You said it – a mistake," he said. "I don't remember much about what happened, but it was as much my fault as it was yours. I didn't see Salazar's men, but they saw me. They took me down – nothing with the fire or the explosions. I let them get the drop on me."

"But Carson saw you on the ground," Michael interjected roughly, his voice thick with emotion. Nearby, Carson flinched visibly, eyes on the ground. "He couldn't get to you on his own, and if we'd all been there—"

"Then you all would have made the same bloody choice," Billy said. "Sometimes we just have bad luck."

Rick's chest felt tight. If his instincts shouted to hate Billy Collins for the threat he was to his career, the reality was that Billy Collins was impossible to hate. Three years of captivity, and he was the one offering absolution and pushing to finish the mission. It was stupid and probably foolhardy, but it was also inspiring.

Michael took a deep breath in and held it. "We can also leave and come back," he said.

Billy didn't waver. "Once they know I'm gone, you know all our chances will be gone too," he said. "This is it, mate. I told you, I want these three years to mean something."

"You're not even field worthy," Michael reminded him.

"So I'll just tagalong," Billy cajoled. "Come on, me and Simms for old time's sake. I'll even let you and Casey take part with explosions."

Michael hesitated, but Rick could see that he was caving. Next to him, Casey was looking equally swayed. Carson still hadn't looked up, face stony as he stared at the ground.

"The mission," Billy reminded him. "That's what this has always been about."

Michael shook his head. "The mission is only part of it," he said. "This time, we all come home." He looked over to Rick. "Martinez, you go with Carson and Billy to get the plates. I want you on lookout the entire time. If anything so much as twitches, you get them out – and don't look back."

"I thought we said_ together_," Billy said by way of protest.

Michael looked at him, unyielding. "I left you behind once," he said. "Let me have this one."

Billy bowed his head. "Fair enough," he said. Then he gathered a breath and looked outside again. "So, what do you say, gents? Shall we take down Salazar once and for all?"

Michael looked nervous; Casey looked ready to kill something. Carson's lips were pressed together, his shoulders taut.

But Rick couldn't help it if his own nerves melted, if his fortitude buoyed. It was true that this was going too well. But this wasn't the ODS as he'd known it. This was hardly the same team at all. With Billy, the dynamic was different – it was better. Rick had no choice but to believe. If disaster was impending, Rick was ready to face it, because of this team. Because of the ODS. They weren't invincible, he knew, but this was as close as they'd ever get.

Resolute, Rick looked up, met Billy's gaze and found himself smiling. "Well, I say let's go."

-o-

Michael and Casey gave them the head start. Going after the plates, they had more ground to cover, and their job would be more time consuming. Michael and Casey needed to light a few matches and be done but Billy had predicted that the plates would be in a secure vault, which would add some time to their job.

Besides, Michael had conceded, it would give them the chance to lay down any cover fire if needed while Billy led Carson and Rick to the office.

This probably should have been reassuring, which probably should have been disconcerting. Spies only needed reassurance when things were bad, which was really ample reason for Rick to have hesitations about this mission.

But he couldn't. Not anymore.

Still, confidence wasn't stupidity, and Rick kept himself poised and on guard. Michael had implicitly trusted him to keep Billy safe and Rick wasn't about to shirk that duty.

Fortunately, luck seemed to be on their side for once. The distance was easily scaled and there was no sign of anyone. They'd timed their rescue over the lunch hour, and it was clearly paying off. Although, Rick had to think, it wouldn't be long before workers started filtering back.

Which meant they needed to hurry.

Billy led, and though his jog was a decent clip, he did seem winded by the effort. As they approached, he pulled up slowly, face visibly pale and sweating. Clearly, criminals didn't believe in affording their captives a recreational period on a regular basis. Billy was good at talking things up, but Rick realized now that maybe his words of confidence were partially just a front.

Still, it was too late to turn back now, and as they came to the door, Billy tested it, finding it locked. He glanced back, eyes locking with Carson. "I trust you still come prepared."

Carson sighed. "Three years and you haven't changed a bit," he muttered.

Still panting, Billy grinned. "I could say the same for you."

Carson snorted, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a lockpick. "And you'd be a liar."

Billy took the pick and shrugged. "Like you said, three years and I haven't changed," he said, then he winked at Rick. "For better or for worse."

-o-

Inside, Rick was trembling. Carson and Billy made a beeline for the desk and the filing cabinets, and he hesitated near the doorway, looking out across the lawn. Across the distance, he could see the shed where they'd found Billy, door closed and interior dark. Then he caught sight of Michael and Casey, two dark figures darting across the lawn toward the other building.

He flicked his eyes toward the rest of the compound and found it eerily silent. There was no one coming – yet. Because they had no reason to think anything was amiss.

Rick glanced nervously back at Carson and Billy. If this worked out, they would be long gone before anyone could stop them.

Restless, he tried to keep himself still, splitting his attention as best he could between the yard and his teammates.

Or his teammate and his replacement.

Or his teammate and the person he'd replaced.

Or his teammate and…Billy. Whatever Billy was to him, he wasn't sure. Desk buddy, ghost friend, the baggage he couldn't shake.

And more. He had every reason to resent the man and no ability to do so. Rick knew that the aftermath from this mission would be messy, but that didn't change how much he wanted to succeed. For his team –_ all _of them, and even he had to concede, Billy Collins was as much a part of that team as the rest of them. Maybe more so.

Which was why he wanted to get this over with – and soon.

There was a small curse, and Rick looked back at Carson and Billy. The Scot had pushed the filing cabinet away, revealing a wall safe behind it. Carson was standing over him, rubbing a hand over his face. "That's not exactly an easy thing to crack," Carson said.

Billy leaned forward, seeming to squint. "Aye," he agreed. "And I'm afraid my skills may be more than a bit rusty."

Carson shook his head. "We should cut and run," he said. "I mean, we won't get Salazar, but we'll all be together—"

Rick felt his gut twist. "If we don't get Salazar, then we're probably going to be arrested."

Billy looked up, surprised. "Let me guess," he said. "This little rescue operation is somewhat less than sanctioned."

Rick winced. He hadn't thought about the implications of that, about telling Billy that the Agency had been willing to wait to get him, to let him waste away a few more months in the name of interagency cooperation. "The treasury is building a case against Salazar," he said, apologetic. "We may have pissed them off when we…borrowed their intelligence."

Billy's lips quirked into a knowing smile. "The ODS? Not playing well with others?" he asked, cagey. "Color me shocked."

"We can run from the Secret Service," Carson said, shaking his head. "If we piss around here, Salazar will have five hostages – or worse."

"Trust me, I'm quite ready to be done with bondage," Billy said. "But Salazar beat us once. He won't do it again."

Carson sighed, clearly frustrated. "It's a high tech safe, man," he said, gesturing helplessly. "Even if you could still crack that thing, we don't have_time._"

"So let's not crack it," Billy said, pushing to his feet. He went to Rick, holding out his hand, nodding to Rick's gun. "May I?"

Rick frowned, confused. "Um, I don't know—"

"Oh, come on, laddie," Billy cajoled. "I'm not so worried about my place on the team as to plug you full of holes."

Rick knew he probably shouldn't. He knew he was probably breaking more protocols than he could really care to remember. Billy Collins was far from field worthy, and he was probably in need of some medical attention in order to regain his strength.

And yet, Rick believed him.

In the end, that was all it came down to.

He handed the gun over.

Carson groaned.

Billy grinned at Rick. "Besides," he said. "Shooting people isn't my style."

Rick cocked his head, still not sure where this was going.

Billy moved back toward the safe, moving past Simms and narrowing his sights. "Inanimate pieces of metal, on the other," he said casually. He glanced back. "I suggest everyone take cover."

Rick barely had time to duck behind the desk when Billy fired. One, two, three, four. Carson hissed a curse and kneeled down next to Billy. The retort seemed to be deafening, and when it was over, Rick found his heart pounding as he got back up and gaped.

Billy was still grinning, staring at the safe.

The now open safe.

"I usually like finesse," Billy admitted. "But I have to admit, that was rather cathartic."

Rick blinked. "But—"

"If you can't pick the safe, you blow the damn thing off its hinges," Carson interjected knowingly. He shook his head. "You do realize that you've probably alerted them that we're here."

"Ah, well," Billy said. "They were going to find out sooner or later."

As if on cue, there was a dramatic bang and a resounding series of explosions. Rick flinched, despite himself.

Billy turned to Rick, holding out his gun. "There you go," he said. "Down a few bullets, but no harm, no foul."

Rick took the gun, still a bit dumbfounded.

Billy leaned forward, pulling off the partially demolished door. Inside, the plates were there. He picked them up, holding them up proudly. "And now we have what we need," he said. "Shall we?"

-o-

Rick had moved back to the door, glancing out to sweep the yard. In one direction, he could see Casey and Michael moving forward. They made it back to Billy's shed when the gunfire started.

Rick swore. "We've got company," he said.

Billy came up beside him, cursing lightly. "They're going to be pinned down."

Rick craned his head, looking the other way. More men were coming, but they seemed to be moving toward the fire. "I don't think they know we've broken in here yet," he said.

"So we still have the critical element of surprise," Billy agreed. He nodded in approval. "I think we can work with that."

"If we circle around back," Rick said, pointing behind the buildings near the fire, "we'll be able to provide cover fire. Even the odds."

"That sounds like a fine plan," he said. "I don't suppose anyone has any extra guns, eh?"

Rick frowned, looking around. Then he smiled. "We're in a criminal compound," he said, getting to his feet. He opened the closet, poking through it. Closing it, he went to a cabinet. Opening it, he grinned. "I think extra guns might be plentiful."

Carson shook his head. "Since things aren't already bad enough," he muttered. "Let's just throw some more fire power into the mix."

Billy stood up, crossing the distance and pulling out a shotgun. "Oh, come now, Carson," he said. He pulled out a pistol and threw it to Simms. "I know how much you love things that go bang."

Carson caught it. "Some things have changed, kiddo."

Billy inclined his head. "Surely, not so much."

Reaching over to grab some ammunition, Carson shook his head, grim faced. "Maybe more than you think."

Rick scooted between them, picking up some fresh ammunition for his own gun. "We're going to have to hurry," he said. "This is going to get hairy."

Billy slapped Rick on the shoulder. "The best missions always do."

Rick didn't disagree, but as they moved back toward the door, he had to wonder if the worst missions always did, too.

There was no time to worry about that, though. Because Billy threw open the door, and it was time to go.

-o-

Outside, chaos was starting to erupt.

This didn't surprise Rick. For some reason, it didn't even make him as nervous as it probably should have. But at this point in his career with the CIA, a little unexpected gunplay was, well, _expected. _As far as he was concerned, they still had the upper hand.

Yes, they were outgunned and outmanned. Yes, they had a frantic exit to make and a long haul to run before they were safe. Yes, there was probably a good chance someone was going to get hurt – or worse.

But this was the ODS.

Not just the fragmented team Rick had gotten to know over the last year, but the real thing. All the pieces were in place. They weren't invincible, but as far as Rick was concerned, they might as well have been.

That was no reason to slack off, however. If anything, it was the incentive Rick needed to perform better. To be flawless.

With that determination, Rick led the way, snaking along to the back of the building and pressing to the corner. From there, he peeked out, gauging the flow of incoming men. Their attention seemed to split, which was an advantage they'd need. Over half were focused on the fire – trying in vain to put it out or control it. The rest, however, were circling toward the stronghold Michael and Casey had seemed to have established in Billy's shed.

Behind him, Billy sidled in close, Carson lagging behind.

"Looks like they've got good cover for now," Rick reported.

"The walls are thick," Billy confirmed. "I'm sure it would have saved them a bundle on heating and cooling, had they been inclined to bother heating or cooling the place in the appropriate season."

It was a joke, Rick knew, but there was a darkness to it. It wasn't torture, sure, but Rick could still remember the crude bathroom and the chained bed. If Rick thought his year had been rough, Billy's had been so much worse.

Yet he was moving on his own, plotting and planning and joking. Like he'd never left.

As if Rick needed more incentive to get the man out.

Carson pulled up the rear, breathing hard. "This is a very bad idea," he said, voice huffing. "Have I told you guys that?"

"I see that Casey's undying pessimism has got the better of you," Billy quipped. "I admit, that was one of my greatest fears in my absence."

"Yeah?" Carson asked. "And what was the other?"

"That Fay would be talked into reproducing with Michael," Billy said. "Granted, the children would be adorable, but I'm not sure Michael's sanity could survive it."

"Well, that's no problem," Carson said. "She got wise and ditched his ass."

Billy turned back, genuinely shocked. "Well, then it's worse than I imagined," he said. "It's a good thing I'm back to keep you blokes from entirely self-imploding."

Rick pursed his lips, looking back across the lawn. He still saw flashes of movement from inside the shed, even though it was measured now, clearly to conserve ammunition. "Maybe we should worry about getting out of this alive first."

Billy looked back. "Right you are, lad," he said, making a small face when gunfire shattered a high window on the shed. "These men look the part and they carry the appropriate weaponry, but they're poorly trained for combat. A little well exerted pressure and I imagine we can make them scattered until someone who actually knows what they're doing shows up."

"So you think we can take them?" Rick asked, too aware of the new flank of guards that had arrived, guns in hand even as more men had brought a hose to bear on the wild flames.

"I think we can cause confusion and chaos," he said. He gave Rick a knowing look. "Which is all the ODS has ever needed to get the job done."

Rick nodded. "Okay," he said. He glanced back toward the surrounding men. The ping of gunfire was rising, growing steady and frequent, though still not close to their location. "We'll focus our fire on the major contingents—"

"And don't be afraid to aim wide," Billy said. "Hit some metal; make debris fly. The illusion of peril is often just as pressing as the real thing."

"We just need enough of an opening for Michael and Casey to get out," Rick said.

"That's all well and good," Carson said. "But we still have to manage to get off the grounds without getting our asses shot off."

"We'll take a car," Rick said, the idea seeming suddenly obvious. "I mean, there's enough of them and if someone knows how to hotwire one—"

Billy scoffed. "You mean they've neglected to show you how to hotwire a car?" he asked indignantly. "You have my apologies; that is a lapse I fully intend to rectify."

"The team bonding is nice, you two," Carson snipped. "But maybe we should get to work?"

Rick refocused, noticing the men getting closer as the firefight intensified. The smoke was wafting their way, and it burned a little in his lung, even though he refused to cough.

"Right," Billy said, face getting serious again, his own face now glistening with sweat – from the exertion or from the heat of flames on the property, Rick wasn't sure.

Rick gritted his teeth, taking a deep breath despite it all and lifting his gun. "Okay," he said. He looked at Billy, wondering briefly if this was the smartest thing Rick had let himself be talked into. Something exploded in the building and more men were yelling, even as the gunfire ratcheted up another notch in a chaotic display of power. "You sure about this?"

Billy just grinned, seemingly oblivious to it all. "I've waited three years for this."

Rick nodded, letting that sink in. Three years. Rick wasn't going to make him wait any longer.

Especially when he'd waited all year to feel like this himself.

He took another breath, and then another. He moistened his lips, steeled himself, lifted his gun and fired.

-o-

There was no time to think.

Billy took the lead instinctively, aiming at the most exposed group of men and quickly picking off a few before they had a chance to react. Rick followed up, taking aim at the next pocket, scoring a few hits before they scrambled back into a defensive position.

There were several moments of chaos while Salazar's men tried to regroup, and with an increased flurry of gunfire from Michael and Casey's stronghold, Rick realized that they were able to draw better battle lines.

And suddenly the odds had shifted, dramatically in their favor. Salazar's men were pinned down and scattered, awkwardly positioned without a clear line of fire. This was progress, Rick supposed, but he quickly saw that it would rapidly develop into a stalemate, the likes of which the ODS probably wouldn't win. They didn't need to hold ground; they needed to get the hell out of dodge.

As if reading his thoughts, Billy leaned close. "You think we ought to try to shift the odds a bit, yeah?"

Rick glanced up. "Yeah, but how?" he asked, looking back across the field. They'd succeeded in giving Michael and Casey more time to position themselves, but without a clear exit it was still less than ideal.

"Come on, son," Billy cajoled. "You're a right proper spy. Surely you have some idea."

Rick's brow furrowed as he studied the landscape again. He saw the burning building, the men with the water. Armed men holed up. Casey and Michael's hideout.

"All we've done is give away our location," Carson said, breathing heavily behind them. "It's like waving a damn red cape at a pissed off bull."

Maybe Simms was right. Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe.

"Don't despair," Billy said. "Just_ think—_"

Think about what? About how they were probably going to die? About how even if they survived, they'd probably be arrested? About how even if he wasn't arrested, that Billy Collins was going to take his job?

Carson leaned around him, firing off a few shots before pulling back. Rick swallowed, feeling the smoke start to burn the back of his throat.

About the fire. The armed men. Entrenched battle lines.

Rick blinked. "We have to move," he said.

Billy lifted his eyebrows; Carson made a face.

"We've got no one at our backs," he realized. "So we still have room to maneuver."

"But if we run out, we're sitting ducks," Carson said.

"Not if we lay down cover fire," Rick said. He squinted, looking out across the lawn again. The men were still in position, poking their heads up, still splitting their fire. He nodded toward one of the other buildings. "There."

Billy followed his gaze. "That's a maintenance garage."

"Secure?" Rick asked.

"Reasonably."

Rick cocked his head. "Maintenance garage," he said, ignoring the sound of gunfire pinging nearby. "Like, for cars?"

"Among other things," Billy said.

"We don't need tools," Carson griped.

"No," Rick agreed, mind working slowly. "But we could use a car."

Billy's face lit up, face widening with a grin. "Indeed we could," he said.

Rick nodded, the idea of it solidifying. "Great," he said. "So. Two of us can stay here, lay down cover fire while the third makes a run for the garage. And once we're there, we can get a car and come back and pick up the rest."

"It's suicide," Simms said.

"It's genius," Billy said. "And I volunteer to make the run."

Rick shook his head. "No, I'll go."

Billy gave him a look. "But I'm the driver of this makeshift outfit."

"No, you're the guy who's been missing three years," Rick reminded him.

"And you'd deny me the driver's wheel now?" Billy asked.

"That's not fair!"

Simms fired off a few shots, pulling back with a huff. "You two are fighting like a pair of girls," he said. "If we don't do something _now, _it's kind of a moot point."

Rick's chest felt tight. There were decisions, too many decisions. Life and death and more.

All this time, he'd thought things were an either/or. Either he was on the team, or Billy was. Either he made the run, or Billy did.

What if it was_ both._

"We'll do it together," Rick concluded.

Billy looked pleasantly surprised. "Teamwork," he said. "A concept I've sorely missed."

"Oh, come on," Carson said, exasperated. "And what I am supposed to do?"

Rick looked at him. "Just give us a little cover."

"Right," Simms said. "No problem. I'll just distract the armed and angry men while you two run across the lawn unprotected. No problem at all."

"You sure?" Rick asked earnestly.

"Man, I just want to get the hell out of here," Carson said.

"We will," Rick promised.

Carson shook his head. "Don't make promises you can't keep, kid," he said.

Rick didn't flinch, didn't look away. "I won't," he said. "You just need to distract them."

For a moment, the protest was evident on Carson's face. "We need to get_ out._"

"We will," Rick assured him. Next to him, Billy's stance was solid, gaze unwavering. Rick nodded again, entirely certain. "We will."

-o-

Rick took the lead, but Billy wasn't far behind. They hadn't rehearsed or spent much time discussing it, but they still moved together seamlessly.

Running out was something of a leap of faith, but he trusted the men at his back. The cover fire was impeccable, and when he reached the first piece of cover halfway there, he went down hard, breathing in short, even gasps. He only took a second to compose himself, then turned, gun up, laying down a fresh string of cover fire of his own.

The retort of gunfire greeted him, bullets dinging the side of the shed he'd taken refuge next to. He didn't really have a chance to look – he was too busy aiming at Salazar's men to divert his attention – but he still saw Billy moving out of the corner of his eye. His gait was just slightly off, but when he pulled up next to Rick, he looked up, face glistening with sweat, blue eyes bright. Grinning.

"You do remember that we're being_ fired _at, right?" Rick hissed.

Billy lifted his eyebrows mischievously. "Indeed we are," he said. "Gets the blood pumping, good and proper."

Rick was incredulous.

"What?" Billy asked innocently. "I've been chained to a bloody bed for three years and allowed to walk around the yard once a day, no more, no less. It's not so much that it's been uncomfortable and trying, but that it's been _boring._"

Rick made a face. "I'm sorry that you've found being hostage so dull."

"It's not your fault, I suppose, but I appreciate the sentiment," he said. "Honestly, I'm going to have to embellish so much to make this a tale worth telling around the CIA break room."

"Well, I think this shootout might help," Rick said, wincing as a bullet splintered the wall particularly close to his head.

"Right you are," Billy agreed enthusiastically. "Now shall we go on?"

Rick frowned. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Billy scoffed. "Are any of the missions the ODS chooses actually a good idea?"

Rick considered that.

"My point exactly."

Rick rolled his eyes. "Just don't get shot!"

Billy gave him a mock salute. "I will do my best."

-o-

Moving to the halfway point had been relatively easy. Sure, there were armed men who wanted to kill him, but he'd had the element of surprise.

Making his way the rest of the distance to the garage, however, lacked said surprise, and the hail of gunfire was more than somewhat disconcerting.

Still, out in the open like he was, he didn't have a lot of options but to run like hell and hope his team had his back.

The gunfire built, and Rick recognized the patter of friendly fire nearby. There was a reprieve, and Rick ground his teeth together, sprinting as fast as his tired legs could carry him, focusing on closing the distance one step at a time.

One step—

More shots were fired, closer now.

One step—

The ground kicked up not far from him, and Rick felt his heart skip a beat.

One step—

He was almost there, so close, so close, so—

The door was mercifully propped open, and he crossed the final distance with a leap that sent him sprawling. The air whistled by his ears, but he could still hear the pops of bullets behind him.

He didn't have time to brace himself and he hit the ground hard, curling up and squeezing his eyes shut. For a moment, he laid like that curled up protectively while he focused on breathing.

In and out.

In and out.

He was alive.

He was_ alive._

There was a scuffling at his back and someone nearly tripped over him. There was an oof and a stumble.

Craning his neck, Rick looked up.

Right as Billy looked down. "Napping on the job?" the Scot asked. "The CIA has gotten quite lax in its training strategies."

"They were firing at me," Rick said.

"Aye," Billy agreed. "Perhaps you would like to do something about that?"

Rick pushed himself up, making a face. "I was getting there."

Billy eyed him. "I can see that," he said. "You were doing a spectacular job of inspecting the floor."

"You know, you're not helping," Rick told him crossly.

Billy blinked at him earnestly. "I was incarcerated against my will for three years. Missing. Presumed dead."

"You're going to play that card? Already?"

"Have I mentioned that my diet consisted mostly of beans and tortilla?"

"So you really are going to play that card," Rick said.

"It wasn't very thrilling for my palate," Billy said. "But I was quite regular."

Rick rolled his eyes.

-o-

Billy liked to talk.

A lot.

In the short time Rick had known him, Billy had said more to him than the ODS combined in the past year. It was a little encouraging, all things considered.

It was also a bit distracting.

"And really, once you master a skill, it's something that should be with you the rest of your career," Billy was explaining, bent over while he rustled for wires inside the largest vehicle they could find. "I mean, take me for example, things are all a bit rusty, but I swear it feels just like yesterday that I was trying to piece together the remnants of a car outside Istanbul while angry gun runners were chasing us down."

Rick shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

Billy looked up at him. "Gun smugglers," he said. "They're often an angry lot. I suppose their disposition makes them unusually suited for violent pursuits—"

"No," Rick interjected. "I mean, what's the point of this story!"

"Ah," Billy said, glancing back at the wires he was twining together. "The point is that you should be learning these skills for yourself."

"You mean skills that criminals know?" Rick asked.

Billy gave him a look. "Skills that might save your life," he said, and suddenly the engine started purring. Billy grinned. He got to his feet, wiping his hands on his pants. "A little extra work on the weekend, and you'll be well equipped for any situation."

Rick couldn't help it; he grinned, too. "But how do you practice hotwiring a car?"

Billy shrugged. "It's not grand theft auto if you don't actually _take _the car," he said. "Now, hop in."

Rick made his way to get in, then cocked his head. "Wait, what?"

Billy was already in the driver's seat. "No time to mince the details, young Rick," he said. "I believe we have a rescue to mount!"

Rick thought he should probably feel dubious about that. But as he climbed in and buckled up, he had to admit, he just felt ready.

-o-

He felt less ready when Billy pressed the gas peddle to the floor and broke through the garage door.

Spark sputtered and debris flew, and Rick found himself shrinking down, hands over his head while the truck bounced its way through the threshold.

"You know, we could have opened the door!" Rick yelled as Billy turned the wheel, skidding them across the grass in a spectacular fashion.

Billy's eyes were bright, smile wide. "And where's the fun in that?"

Rick had to brace himself as they veered again, wincing as they came up on an enemy stronghold. He expected gunfire, but the men scattered instead, yelling and cursing, faces pale. Rick knew how they felt. "I'm not so sure that having fun is our primary concern," he said, fingers wrapping tightly around the door handle.

Billy turned sharp again, braking suddenly as he made a dramatic pitch toward another stronghold. "And why can't it be both?"

This time, the men held their ground, gunfire dinging the car while Rick did his best not to puke. "Because you're going to get us killed!"

Billy bared down, gaze focused as he gave the gas everything it had, sending the car straight at the men – and the full-sized car they had been using for cover. "Armored cars are wonderful, wonderful things," he said, unflinching as they approached.

Rick glanced at Billy, then at the men and the car. Gunfire ricocheted off the front and Rick swallowed painfully. "They're not moving."

"Just keep it steady," Billy said, quietly, engine roaring.

"Billy—"

"Trust," Billy said, eerily calm even as the gunfire picked up, intensifying as they neared. "A year with the ODS ought to have taught you that much."

Trust. It could be earned, but it was hard. Harder still to keep. In a year, he'd trusted Michael, Casey and Carson with his life.

In an hour, he could say the same for Billy Collins.

Trust.

He breathed in and steadied himself, bracing.

Billy didn't waver, kept focused, kept going, kept going—

Until the men started to flee, one by one, but they were too close to turn away—

But Billy turned the wheel hard, and the truck rocked precariously, tipping uncertainly. Rick's stomach turned and his head went light as he dipped with the car. When they righted, he was snapped back, head bouncing off the window, vision going bright for one long moment.

For that time, there was only movement and sound, distance and sporadic, bright lights assaulting him and gunfire mixing with yells.  
_  
Trust.  
_  
He had to trust a man he'd only met, a man who wrote bad poetry and cracked jokes and told stories and did his job better than he did.  
_  
Trust.  
_  
The truck bounced viciously, and Rick's vision started to clear in time to see the grass and the sky and the—

Building.

Trust or not, Rick yelped, throwing up his hands. Not that it did any good. The truck bounding forward, careening into the walls and buckling it, brick and mortar crumbling in a magnificent deluge, the sound deafening him as he watched half in horror, half in amazement as the truck came to a hissing stop.

And then – stillness.

Rick blinked. He breathed.

He looked over and saw Casey and Michael standing, staring back.

And next to him, Billy clapped his hands together.

"What the hell was that?" Rick asked, his fear making his incredulity even sharper than normal.

"That," Billy said, unbuckling his seatbelt, "is how you clear the field and mount a rescue."

Rick gaped, heart still thudding in his chest. His breath caught in his throat and he wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or laugh.

Or both.

Out his door, Billy had rounded to the front on foot, meeting up with Michael and Casey, who were looking at him curiously.

"What'd you do to Martinez?" Michael asked.

Billy shrugged. "He seems to be a bit green when it comes to high speed chases."

"Well, we have tried to minimize the amount of time we spend driving into gunfire," Michael said.

Billy scoffed. "You've been neglecting to teach him the basics, then!"

"We prefer to think of it as avoiding the development of suicidal tendencies," Casey said. "Something I think we failed with you, quite clearly."

"I'm alive, am I not?" Billy asked.

"You did just drive a car around, aiming at armed criminals, and then drove through a wall," Michael pointed out.

"But it was therapeutic!"

Michael rolled his eyes and then squinted back up at Rick. "You okay up there, Martinez?" he asked.

Staring, Rick felt his head clear just enough. Trust. Teamwork.

He huffed, almost laughing, the uncertain fear giving way to a growing fortitude.

"Yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "I think I am."

-o-

The fortitude translated into action. Rick gathered his scattered wits and got out. Billy's maneuvering had bought them some time – apparently his maniacal driving skills had thrown off their pursuers more than a little – but they needed to act.

And fast.

Michael pulled them down in front of the car, Billy and Rick around him while Casey laid down cover fire, picking off men while Salazar's team reorganized.

"As fun as this has been, I think it's time to leave," Michael said.

"No arguments here, mate," Billy chimed in. "Which is why I kindly brought the transportation. Going by foot is environmentally conscious of us, but in circumstances such as these, I think speed is preferable."

Michael nodded. "Agreed," he said. He looked at the truck. "Bullet proof?"

"Seems decently armored," Billy said. "Salazar is fond of his toys and he likes them to be well equipped."

"Works for me," Michael said. Then he looked to Rick. "Do you have the plates?"

For a second, Rick went numb. In all the activity, he'd forgotten about the plates – he'd forgotten about everything, really. And without the plates, everything was a loss—

Billy nodded toward the truck. "Briefcase should be in there," he said. "It's been tossed around a bit while we were running, but I made sure to keep a tight hand on it. I'm not letting that son of a bitch get off now, not when we're so close."

Billy's tone was conversational enough, but Rick detected a hint of malice – more than a hint, really, though it was hard to tell. Billy's upbeat personality was pretty distracting, but Rick figured it was only logical that the man might harbor more than a few resentments at the men who imprisoned him for three years.

Really, it was remarkable that Billy didn't hold a grudge against the three teammates who had inadvertently left him behind. Or the tagalong kid who had taken his job.

The thought made Rick frown. He'd been so busy disliking Billy Collins before this mission that he'd never considered that the man might have spent the last three years disliking_ him._

But that didn't seem to be the case. Billy Collins was more than the legend the CIA rumor mill purported him to be. He was _Billy Collins,_ and if he wanted to stick it to Salazar, then Rick wouldn't begrudge him that.

"Good," Michael said, nodding readily. Then his brow creased. "Where did you leave Simms?"

Rick couldn't help but blanche. "He's back a ways," he said. "We needed someone to lay down cover for us to get to the truck. He's been on his own this whole time."

"Ah, never fear," Billy said. "Carson Simms is a tough old blighter. Lean and crotchety – a true survivor if ever I've met one. He'll be fine."

"But pissed," Michael added. "We better head back and get him."

"He's back on the other side, close to the fire," Rick said. "I mean, that's good cover for him, but it's going to slow us down getting through there. If the truck takes enough shots, bullet proof or not, it won't be getting us out of here."

"And we can't compromise our exit," Michael said, his frown deepening as he clearly weighed his options. Options, Rick noted to himself, that weren't very good. They clearly weren't going to leave Simms behind, but what could they do? They could try to lay down enough cover fire for Carson to make a run for it, but with that distance, it wouldn't likely end well. Going back in the truck would leave them exposed for too long and risk the whole operation going belly up before they had a chance to get the hell out.

But there was one other option, and Rick came upon it with a sudden solidarity.

"I'll go back," he said.

Michael looked at him, clearly surprised.

Billy inclined his head.

Rick nodded with certainty. "I'll double back. When I get to him, I'll let him know that we're leaving and meet you guys back at the gate."

"That's a hell of a long run, Martinez," Michael said. "I thought we taught you how to survive better than that."

"You can lay down enough cover to get me most of the way there," Rick said. "Then, I'll just have to be careful. When I'm in contact with Carson we can have each other's backs the whole way out. From over there, it's a straighter shot to the fence anyway."

At their backs, the gunfire picked up in its intensity. Over the din, Casey's voice came back. "I don't mean to rush you, but if you don't hurry up and come up with a plan, you might as well start planning our funerals instead."

Rick grimaced and Michael looked uncertain. But Billy nodded. "Young Rick here is correct," he said. "Only we should heed Michael's years of experience. It is too long to go alone—"

"But—" Rick started to protest.

Billy didn't let him finish. "We'll go together."

On one level, it seemed like a good idea. Pairing off again made sense, especially now that they had a clear exit plan and ample opportunity to get out.

But, on every other level, Rick hated it. It was risky, and if this was a risk he was going to take, he could handle that. But Billy…

Adamant, Rick shook his head. "No."

Billy blinked at him, taken aback. "No?"

"It's too big of a risk," Rick concluded.

Billy scoffed. "So you're the only one who can go gallivanting off and putting your life on the line."

"No," Rick said. "But you've done enough." Michael had entrusted him with Billy's life, and after everything, Rick wasn't going to let the man risk everything now. Not when they were so close. Not when Billy had already given him more than Rick could even understand in just a few short hours. This team needed Billy, and Rick wasn't about to let that get away when they were so close to getting him out. "You should be in the truck – the first one out."

Billy stared, clearly a bit dumbstruck.

Michael shrugged. "This is a rescue operation for you, after all," he said. "It'd be pretty bad form to have you getting shot before we even officially get you out."

Billy looked from Rick to Michael and back again. "I see I've been outvoted," he said. "Strange new wonders; I've missed more than I thought."

Rick offered him a small smile. "It won't be any fun anyway," he said. "Carson will just complain when I get there."

Billy snorted. "He is rather epic in his ability to find something to gripe about."

Michael worked his jaw. There was something off in his countenance, that look of unsettling dissatisfaction when a plan wasn't quite what he wanted it to be. But when he looked at Rick, he didn't waver. "We'll cover you as long as we can," he said. "But when you can't hear our gunfire anymore—"

Rick nodded his understanding. "Then I'm on my own."

Michael's expression was almost grim, but he nodded. He'd trusted Rick with Billy's life; now he was trusting Rick with more than that – a lot more than that. For the first time in a year, Rick wasn't just the tagalong. He was an integral part of the team. Somehow, he'd earned his place. Somehow, all the pieces had come together and Rick still fit even when he shouldn't at all.

Still, Michael made no further comment, lifting his gun and going back toward Casey where the firefight was picking up steam again.

Billy caught his gaze next and held it. "This is a noble thing."

"It's just the job," Rick said, shrugging. "Right?"

Billy smiled, small and rueful. For a moment, Rick saw something in the other man, something deeper. Something tired and weary; something a little lost, a little broken. "Three years I tried to tell myself that," he said. "Now, I'm finally starting to believe it again."

And Rick was, too.

-o-

When Rick broke out across the open ground, his nerves were gone.

This could be partly attributed to the fact that he'd been nearly killed so many times today that one more time just couldn't have much impact. It could have something to do with the fact that he trusted his team, that if they said they'd give him cover, he could trust that he had cover.

Or it could just be that this was the job he signed up for. He was sure of that now – more certain than he'd ever been. So he was going to do his job.

No matter what.

So he ran.

He kept his gun in hand, but he had no way of using it. Eyes focused, he ran headlong toward the closest cover he could find – a building halfway across the distance. Salazar's men were still regrouping, pulling back in the other direction, the rest having apparently abandoned the raging flames. After so much back and forth, he could only assume they'd finally realized that they needed to confer and create an actual plan of attack instead of just shooting waywardly and hoping to achieve success.

This was both bad and good. Bad for the ultimate exit, but pretty good for Rick, because as he streaked across the field, the gunfire was so focused back on his teammates that they didn't seem to be overly concerned with him.

Still, as the cover fire tapered off, he heard a sharp crack. The ground flew up in front of him, and Rick realized he was almost out of his safety zone.

Instinctively, he ducked down, refusing to slow even as the small _pffts _got closer to him.

When he reached the building, he pulled up hard, slamming his back against it to catch his breath. The gunfire continued for a long moment, then stopped. When it started again, it was broken off in two directions.

Rick swallowed. He glanced back the way he came and saw his team anchored down. They'd get into the truck soon, which meant Rick didn't have time to waste.

Turning his head, he looked in the other direction. The majority of the fighting had shifted, away from Rick's original location by the office and closer to the stronghold in Billy's prison. At first, this seemed odd. Sure, they'd want to focus their efforts, but what about Carson?

Rick's stomach turned. Unless they'd already got Carson, which would explain why it was so quiet. If Carson had been taken, or killed…

Rick didn't entertain the thought. He refused it.

Instead, he sucked in a breath and let it out through his nose. Determined, he shifted his way to the far wall. Poking his head out, he had an unobstructed view.

A quiet view.

The fighting still raged behind him, measured bursts of gunplay, but it was quiet on this side. That didn't mean Rick was in the clear, but it also meant that he had no reason to just go. Because as good as the quiet might be for him, Rick hated to think what it might mean for Simms.

Straining, he narrowed his eyes in on the place he'd last left Simms. There was no movement. The bullet-scarred building was still standing, dim and silent.

And the choice was made for him. He had no cover, and he could conduct a sweep but that would just be wasting time. If there were a gunman in the area it wouldn't matter what Rick checked out. All that mattered was Simms and getting his team in and out in one piece.

Decision made, Rick set out again, pumping his legs frantically as he crossed the distance. He heard the ground under his feet, the grass and dirt flinging up from his shoes as he pressed himself harder than before. His chest was burning, his eyes blurred when he finally closed in. With one last burst of energy, he rounded the corner and ducked to safety—

Only to be greeted by the barrel of a gun.

Rick gasped, hands going up, eyes wide.

Then the gun dropped and someone swore. "What the hell, kid?"

Rick blinked, eyes moving from the gun to the man holding it. "Carson?"

Simms' face was dour. "Gee, nice to know that you still remember me since you and Collins ditched my ass."

"We stole a car to get to Michael and Casey," Rick reported. "It took a while."

Carson snorted. "I noticed."

Rick straightened, trying to calm his nerves. "What are you doing here?"

Because Simms was unhurt. He still had his gun and presumably still had ammunition. And yet, there he was. Just standing there.

Carson's jaw worked. "When you and Collins made your run, you attracted a lot of attention," he said. "Drew all the fire. With all that going on, people sort of forgot about me."

At this, Rick frowned. That made sense, for the most part, but for one thing: "So you thought you'd just hang out?"

Carson flinched, just a little, but his eyes hardened. "I'm one guy with limited ammo," he said. "You had a whole frickin' army on your asses. What did you want me to do? Get myself killed?"

Rick considered that. "No…"

"I was backup," Carson continued, a little harshly. "But there was no opening…"

With his poor position, Rick could only accede that it made a certain kind of sense. Carson hadn't known their plans; he hadn't known anything. Making himself a moving target when he had the element of surprise would have been nothing short of stupid.

Which was probably what seemed weird to Rick. On this mission, the ODS had a penchant for stupid, which seemed to be synonymous with noble. Someone had to be the voice of reason.

Rick nodded. "Okay," he said. "Well, the others are going to make their way in the truck to the exit. We need to work our way over there so we can get out."

Carson nodded, face twisted tightly. "And we still have the plates?"

"Yeah," Rick said. "We have everything we need to make sure the case against Salazar is rock solid."

For a moment, Carson's expression was inscrutable. There was something strangely blank on his features before his brow furrowed. He took a breath and shook his head. "It's not enough, man," he said.

That was a reply Rick hadn't expected. "What do you mean?"

Simms swallowed hard and shook his head again, running a hand through his hair. "The plates aren't enough," he said. "We need his sales history. We need bank accounts and buyers—"

It wasn't that there was no logic in that. It wasn't even that those were good ideas. It was just that it was coming out of nowhere.

This was the plan they'd made. The one they'd agreed on. Get the plates. Put out Salazar's description at all the checkpoints. Make the arrests, secure their way out of here. Get Billy, get Salazar, go home.

End of story.

And now Simms wanted_ more._

So much for the voice of reason.

Rick shook his head. "But we don't have time—"

But Carson was pulling away, backing up just a little. "It'll just take a second," he said.

"You don't even know where to look!" Rick hissed.

"The main house," Carson said. "I know Salazar. He keeps his records separate and close at all times."

"But that's crazy!" Rick said, louder now. "Going back in there now would be stupid!"

"No, man, best time to do it," Simms said. "Chaos out here like it is? Salazar's a no good weasel. He'll be cutting his losses, packing up to leave—"

"So he'll have the papers with him tomorrow—"

Simms shook his head. "You go on and go," he said. "I'll catch up with you guys."

Rick stared, at a loss. Simms wanted to go back. More than that, he wanted to go to the main house. And for what? Papers that may or may not be there? And at what risk? And how did he expect to survive?

It wasn't possible – and Rick couldn't let it happen.

Reaching out, he snagged Carson's shirt. "Orders are to get out," Rick said. "We have to go."

Carson met Rick's gaze, and their eyes locked for a long moment. There was sadness, regret. Guilt.

Carson shook his head again. "Sorry, kid," he said. "I got to do this."

Numb, Rick was too shocked to stop him. The older man pulled away, starting to run off.

As the numbness faded, Rick realized what he would have to do. If Simms wouldn't come willingly, Rick would drag him out against his will. If it saved the man's life, it would be worth it. Simms would thank him. Michael wouldn't have it any other way.

But as he made his move, the burning building roared, the flames rising hire. The air crackled and something spark, and as Rick turned to see, an explosion rocked the area, sending him crashing back to the building. His head collided with something and something sharp clipped his arm before everything went dark.

-o-

Something was droning.

Low and persistent, it echoed in his ears, ringing and buzzing and—

Rick groaned.

The droning jackknifed in his brain, building slowly but steadily until he just wanted to go back to sleep. To forget this day, with its droning and its missions and—

Mission.

Rick jolted, cutting through the fog. His eyes popped open and he blinked, staring up at the too-blue sky above. Wafts of black smoke filtered by, creating a haze, and Rick swallowed.

And sound came back.

The droning became acute, and Rick realized there was yelling and flame and—

He needed to move. Because there was yelling and flame and where the hell was—

Carson.

Rick sat up, and the world tilted, his stomach churning violently for a moment. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to breathe, letting the oxygen fill his lungs before he let it out, the pressure burning.

Eyes open, he looked back, craning his neck. The building Michael and Casey had set on fire was a charred mess, the roof caved in and walls collapsed. The explosion had probably been from whatever fuel they'd had stored there, and the smoldering wreck was well beyond salvaging.

That didn't matter, though.

He had to squint, vision still skewed from the explosion, but he could see the guards scrambling. It wasn't clear how much time had passed, but since the men were still off kilter, Rick could hope that he hadn't been out too long.

But long enough.

The truck backed out jerkily, eliciting fresh gunfire as it went roughly into drive, plowing forward toward the exit.

That was Rick's cue – and then some. He was supposed to meet them on the way out, Carson in tow.

Carson.

Rick turned, looking back to where he'd last seen the older operative. At first, with the smoke and the ringing in his ears, he couldn't make out much. But then, he noticed movement. Far up ahead, someone was running.

Tall, lanky, gray hair.

Carson Simms was running like his life depending on it.

Which was sort of funny, because Carson Simms had been lackadaisical, indifferent, and insufferably lazy most of the time Rick had known him. He barely showed up for work on time and took lunches that sometimes lasted for hours.

And more so, he was running headlong in a direction that was sure to get him killed.

Salazar's compound was far enough away to be safe from the blaze, but even from a distance, Rick could easily see that it was decadent and built on the spoils of a criminal life. Carson had no chance of getting in there. Even if he did, he wouldn't know where to look for whatever elusive evidence he thought they so desperately needed.

And really, even if he did find it, what made him think he would get out without being caught? Or that he would even get out alive, for that matter?

Carson Simms was running to get himself killed, and Rick wasn't quite sure why but he wasn't about to sit around and let one of his teammates throw himself into harm's way. They were all leaving this place together. Michael and Casey and Rick and Carson and Billy.

End of story.

Gritting his teeth, Rick got to his feet. He wavered for a moment, but fought back the vertigo. Forcing out an even breath through his nose, he garnered his strength and started to follow.

-o-

Rick was faster than Carson, but he found that the blast had rattled him more than he'd thought. He stumbled intermittently, once having to stop and put his hands on his knees to get his bearings before he could continue his pursuit. As it was, he gained ground on the other man, close enough to call out his name, but Simms showed no sign of hearing him.

At the very least, Carson showed no sign of stopping. Instead, he kept running, snaking around to the side of the house and disappearing from view.

Rick picked up his pace, and by the time he got to the side his ribs ached and his entire chest felt like it might explode. His vision was hazy at the edges, but it didn't take much critical thinking to deduce that Carson had gone inside. The door kicked off its hinges was evidence enough.

With a few more deep breaths, Rick glanced down the length of the house, finding it eerily abandoned. This far away the fire was still audible but muted, and the smoke was only a little hazy in the Panama sun.

Pursing his lips, Rick eyed the door with trepidation. This was sort of like suicide and he knew it. Going in would be the stupidest thing he could do, especially when he knew that Michael, Casey and Billy were already on their way out. Even if he managed to get out of the house, he might not have any exit left. He couldn't expect his teammates to wait, not when getting Billy out was such a priority.

But Simms was in there. And Rick wasn't going to leave a man behind.

The decision cemented, he pulled his gun and took a breath. With all the strength he had left, he went inside.

-o-

Rick had half-expected to be greeted by gunfire and confrontation.

So it was ironic that the stillness was actually far more disconcerting.

He found that the door had let him inside of what appeared to be a mudroom. It opened into a pantry, still filled with a wide range of items including an odd selection of Little Debbie snacks. The large pantry had a swinging door, which Rick approached cautiously, peeking out into a grandiose kitchen.

It was a bright room, filled with light from generous windows. The sunlight glinted off stainless steel appliances, making flecks in the granite sparkle. Everything was immaculate, almost untouched.

And empty.

Inside, Rick couldn't even hear the fire or the gunfire. It was a different world; secluded.

Which was all wrong. He got that this was Salazar's private residence. Opulence and comfort were probably givens. But outside, his compound was burning and badly compromised. Where was the frantic packing? The fleeing?

Or had they already left?

Rick considered that, and wondered if maybe they'd get that lucky.

There was only one way to find out.

Carefully, Rick pushed open the doors and stepped out, gun raised. He went slowly, each step calculated. His heart felt too loud, and he swallowed convulsively, fingers sweaty on the gun as he moved through the kitchen and into the oversized dining room.

The room was decked out with a crystal chandelier, hanging over an expansive cherry table, adorned with fresh flowers. Rick could still smell their scent as he pressed through. The next room was even more decadently furnished, an exquisite formal dining room, with comfortable looking furniture and large vases. Some of the art looked familiar on the walls, but Rick didn't have time to figure out if they were the real thing or not.

Instead, he kept himself alert, listening attentively for any sign of movement.

But there was nothing. Outside he could see the smoke, the fading flames, even cars in the distance, but here it was quiet and unoccupied. Its own distinct world.

Rick found that he was trembling as he made his way through, noting with some concern that he would have no cover if someone did decided to pop up. He was in the open, and though the furniture was large, it wouldn't do much to stop a trail of bullets.

The living room was rounded off with a grand staircase, curving along the far wall. He could see a tiled entryway beyond that, with more rooms presumably on the other side. But with no movement and no sound, Rick had no idea where to go. Carson was in here somewhere, but there was no sign of him – no sign of anyone.

On the far side now, Rick looked up the staircase, but saw nothing. He was inching his way by the front door when something finally broke the silence.

More like shattered it.

It was a crashing sound, too loud to be mistaken and too sudden to be overlooked. Rick was on alert, eyes wide as he tried to place it. He didn't have to work hard, not when it was followed up by the sound of a gunshot, rocking the house from upstairs.

Just like that, Rick's caution was a thing of the past. Gun raised, he ran, taking the stairs two at a time. As he bounded, the increasing sounds of a struggle spurred him onward, especially when he heard Simms' voice.

The words were indiscriminate, but the anger, the rage, the_ panic _was clear. Carson was in trouble—

Rick charged, following the noise. There was a door ajar at the end of the hall and Rick ran, pushing it open and barging in with his gun up, breath tight in his chest, ready for anything.

Anything except what he saw.

Because he found Carson alright, and he was angry and enraged and panicked. But he was also still holding a gun, fingers fisted in Salazar's shirt, the barrel pressed against the man's head.

Salazar was simpering, eyes wide with terror as he shook his head, tears streaking down his face.

For a second, Rick didn't know what to do. He stood, frozen, gun up, and staring. Salazar looked almost grateful for the intrusion, and when Simms looked up at him, his face was hardened and twisted.

Then, he slackened, his grip easing just slightly on Salazar's shirt. "Rick," he said, almost breathless. "Didn't expect you, kid."

That much was an understatement. Simms looked like he'd been about two seconds from killing Salazar – so there must have been a reason. Maybe the scuffle had been him getting the upper hand in a fight Salazar had started. Maybe the shot had been from Salazar and Rick couldn't see the gun.

There were a lot of maybes.

And not a lot of facts – except for the fact that he'd just walked into see one of his teammates about to murder an unarmed man. Criminal or not, that wasn't okay.

Gun still up, Rick took a tentative step closer. "Everything okay?"

"Sure," Carson said, quickly repositioning his stance but keeping himself steady, gun still primed and ready. "I caught this son of a bitch sneaking around trying to make his getaway. And I thought, what the hell? Why not just take him into custody now and spare ourselves the risk of a manhunt tomorrow?"

There was logic to that. There was. None of them would object to bringing in Salazar now. In fact, in most circumstances, they'd consider it a real victory. An unprecedented boon of good luck.

But this didn't look like an arrest. Not even an ODS-style arrest. Salazar had his hands up, and he looked terrified – more than that, he looked unarmed, and Carson's gun was still pressed up against his forehead while blood dribble from his nose, a dark welt forming on his tanned cheek..

"Okay," Rick said, his nerves keeping him on edge because Carson didn't ease up, not even a little. "So maybe we should tie him up and get him out?"

Carson blinked, as if the thought hadn't even occurred to him. "Yeah," he said. "Of course. I was just trying to get him to tell us where he keeps his personal escape plan. We're going to need an exit."

That was true. The house seemed abandoned, but that didn't mean much. And outside the window on the second floor, Rick could see over the compound and saw the scrambling men, some moving back toward the house. They wouldn't be safe here for long.

But something was wrong. Rick couldn't quite place it, but something was very, very wrong. Something in Simms' demeanor, something in Salazar's expression. Carson didn't relax; Salazar didn't look like a threat.

"Why don't you head over to the master bedroom," Simms suggested next.

Rick stiffened, inclining his head. "Why?"

"He's got to have keys somewhere," Carson said, sighing with exasperation. "To a car, a helicopter. Anything. You can find them and come back to get us."

Rick shifted, gauging the situation, trying to figure it out. An exit strategy was a good idea, a necessary one even. Michael and Casey and Billy would probably be in the clear now, and getting across the grounds with the shifted dynamic of the men outside would be more than a little difficult.

But Simms was still standing, eyes cold and knowing and the gun pressed ominously against Salazar's head. This was the man who had taken Billy, who had held him for three years. Revenge was a powerful, important thing, but this was more than that. This had started before that, before the incident in the yard. Back in the plane, all the conversations of the last year. About survival and regret and the things you did to save yourself.

Simms didn't risk his life carelessly. He didn't risk his life for anyone but himself.

He could be here for Billy, but…

There was still something off, something not quite right, something—

Then Salazar sucked in a breath. "You'll never get away."

Simms' grip tightened and he rammed the gun against him harder. "Shut up," he said, almost spitting the words with utter vehemence. "You stinkin' weasel, just shut the hell up."

Salazar rocked, visibly wincing, and Rick felt himself tense. If Simms pulled the trigger, he wouldn't be able to stop him. And he wouldn't know how to salvage it if he did.

"Hey," Rick said, trying to sound disarming. "We want him alive."

"Why?" Carson asked, eyes narrowed on Salazar. "This bastard isn't worth anything."

Rick hedged, starting to feel desperate. "We still have a job."

Simms looked at him, eyes dark. "Have you seen the things he's done, kid? Remember finding Billy, locked up and chained? And you want to save him?"

"It's not about saving him," Rick said, stepping closer, gun still up, but keeping himself still. Simms was on the precipice of something, something he couldn't identify, but something he suddenly realized he had to be very careful of. There was a reason Simms had run all the way back here; there was a reason that Simms had Salazar at gunpoint. There was a reason he wanted the man dead.

Rick didn't know why yet, but he was beginning to sense that there was more to this than he thought. So much more.

Then Salazar snorted. "Not all operatives are as easily swayed as you, Mr. Simms," he said, smirking even as blood continued to flow from his nose.

Mr. Simms. Salazar knew Simms.

That could be nothing. It could be from the case they'd worked three years ago in North Africa. Maybe Billy had said something during his incarceration. Maybe Salazar had extracted that information from Simms before Billy came in.

But there was familiarity in it. Not just the word, but the tone. The look.

Everything.

Salazar knew Simms.

And Simms knew Salazar.

Not just as a name in a file, a mark to arrest, but_ knew him. _

Suddenly, there were more questions, too many questions. Rick's heart skipped a beat and he had to swallow back his fear. He kept his gun steady, easing in another step closer.

Carson's face twisted, and he bared down on his captive, shaking him violently, the barrel of the gun scraping across Salazar's forehead.

"Hey, hey, hey," Rick said. "Let's just take it easy—"

His suggestion fell on deaf ears and before he could act, Simms had raked the gun across Salazar's face, opening up a fresh cut and sending the man sprawling to the floor, limp and unmoving. He moved in, aiming the gun straight at the man.

Rick surged forward, raising his own gun, feeling his heart thunder as he fixed it on his teammate. "Simms,_ don't,_" he said.

Carson stopped, eyes going to Rick as he stilled.

Rick tried not to flinch, even as he shook his head. "We've got him," he said, slow and steady. "We can take him into custody, and it'll be okay."

Simms snorted, a wry, cynical look in his eyes. "Nothing will be okay," he said. "Nothing will ever be okay until this son of a bitch is rotting in a grave."

With that, Simms tightened his grip on the gun.

Rick's head went light. "Come on, you can't do this," he said. "I don't know what's going on here, but you can't kill him."

"Oh, but I can," Simms said.

"No," Rick said. "Not while I'm here."

At that, Carson cocked his head, looking at Rick curiously. "Are you going to stop me?"

The question was plain and direct – and utterly to the point. Was Rick going to stop him? Could he stop him? Charging him would be a risk – the gun might fire anyway. But shooting him…

Simms was his teammate. He was on the ODS. Rick couldn't kill him…

But Simms was going to kill an unarmed man. Even if there had been provocation, this was murder. This was wrong.

He took a breath, nodding as resolutely as he could. "I have no choice."

For a moment, Simms didn't move. But then his face hardened and he lifted the gun off of Salazar.

And aimed it right at Rick. "Then neither do I."

-o-

Everything stopped.

This mission had been up and down, nothing short of a roller coaster. Hell, this entire _year _had been an unpredictable mess, and he'd be a liar if he said that he hadn't wondered if his teammates were trying to kill him more than once.

But they hadn't been trying to kill him. They'd been trying to protect him in their own, messed up way. Because Rick was the new guy, and it wasn't that they didn't trust the new guy, it was that they didn't trust themselves _with _the new guy because Billy Collins had been missing and presumed dead and they didn't want that to happen again.

Which was fine, because Rick didn't want it to happen either, so really, that worked out except for the fact that there Rick was, being held at gunpoint—

By Carson Simms.

Carson Simms. Who sat in the desk across from Rick, who drank too much, who always showed up late, who slept through off days.

Simms. Who could talk his way out of everything, who said you always saved yourself.

Simms. Who had come back here, against orders, against logic. Who Salazar had known.

Rick sucked a breath. "Why did you come back here?"

Simms shook his head, laughing. "We're not going to talk this through, kid," he said, a hysterical edge to his voice. "I know what you're doing, and there's no point. Two people in this room can walk out of here, and it should be me and you."

"Right," Rick said, trying not to tremble, not even as his head went lighter. "So put the gun down—"

Simms jerked the gun up, jabbing it toward Rick, face twisted. "You put it down," he seethed. "This has nothing to do with you, you can put it away and walk out—"

"So you can kill him?" Rick asked.

"He's_ scum,_" Simms said emphatically. "You have no idea—"

"Then tell me," Rick said, not letting his own gun waver. Everything felt tremulous, but he had to keep it together. He couldn't lose it, not now. "Tell me what this is all about."

Carson's face crumpled for a moment, but then he shook his head. His eyes were bright, almost glistening. "This isn't what you think."

Rick felt his heart stutter and he had to force himself to breathe.

And he nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice came from behind:

"Then tell me, mate, what is it about?"

The Scottish accent was unmistakable, and Rick turned, blinking in shock at Billy, who was standing in the doorway.

On the one hand, Rick was relieved to see him. Rick didn't know what he was doing; didn't know what he was going to do. He just knew he had a gun on his teammate and he couldn't see a way out of this that didn't end horribly.

On the other hand, Rick was angry. Because he'd_ told _Billy to stay with Michael and Casey; he'd made the choice to come alone because he_ was _a part of this team, and Billy's only role in this mission was to be rescued, and everyone seemed to be aware of that_ except _Billy.

On both hands, though, Rick was surprised. Even though, in retrospect, he probably shouldn't have been. No one in the ODS followed orders, and if anyone exemplified the soul of the ODS, it was most certainly Billy Collins.

Still.

"What are you doing here?" Rick hissed.

Billy glanced at him, offering him a disarming smile. "What can I say? I missed your company. I'd forgotten what sour pusses Michael and Casey can be."

It was funny, Rick supposed, but really, entirely _not _the point. "But haven't you guys gotten out?" he asked. "Wasn't that the plan?"

"The plan was for you to follow us," Billy reminded him. "And then you went and got yourself blown up—"

"I was_ fine,_" Rick shot back.

"But then you went and got yourself held at gunpoint—"

"Which is why you shouldn't be anywhere _near _here," Rick said, voice rising in frustration.

"Neither of you should be here!" Carson yelled, interrupting them with vigor.

Rick turned back. "And neither should you!" he exclaimed, and his head was staring to hurt. A lot.

"Look," Billy said, stepping closer now, arms out in front of him. He had a gun, Rick could see, but it was tucked into his pants. "We decided this; we all leave. Together. Michael and Casey are holed up outside, trying to fend off the incoming guards as best they can, but we don't have long. If we're going to get out of here—"

"—we need to leave," Rick finished for him. He looked back at Carson, feeling his hope rise.

And Carson's face showed indecision. There was a part of him that wanted to walk away – a large part of him. The part that Rick knew, the part that had joked with him over the last year, who had shown him a thing or two about being a spy. Carson Simms was a good spy; he was a good person. He wasn't perfect, but no one was, and Carson Simms had saved Rick's life, and that counted for something.

But Carson Simms was also human. Far too human. He was selfish and lazy and when his back was against the proverbial wall, he chose himself.

He chose _himself._

Over his job, over his teammates. Over Rick. Even over Billy Collins.

Carson shook his head, the gun steadying in his hands. "We can leave," he said. "Just not together. You have to let me finish this."

"Finish what!" Rick demanded, his patience almost gone now.

Billy moved closer, right next to Rick now. His eyes were on Carson, unyielding. "Finish what you started three years ago in North Africa," he said.

Rick's stomach flipped, his body going numb. He looked at Billy, gaping.

But Billy didn't look back. Kept his gaze steady. "That's what this is about, isn't it?"

Carson's jaw worked, but he didn't deny it.

"I reckon I always suspected," Billy admitted. "I had a lot of time to think about how things went down, but I never let myself actually believe it."

Rick shook his head, fumbling to keep up. Because his head hurt and his lungs were tight and too much had happened and it was hard to think down the barrel of a gun and it was_ too much._ "Believe what?"

Carson flinched, his expression breaking just a little. The anger was laden with regret now. Pain and hurt and sorrow. The gun didn't move, and Simms was so stiff he looked like he might break.

Billy continued, voice soft but steady. "That Salazar didn't just get lucky three years ago. He had someone on the inside."

Rick's chest felt inexplicably tight again, not from the smoke or the force of the blast. The tension in the room was overwhelming, pulling them all taut; if one of them gave an inch, they'd all fall apart. "The CIA?" he asked, a little dumbly.

Simms' face was stony now, and Rick's brain worked overtime. He knew what Billy was suggesting, he_ knew _– hell, he'd been starting to wonder himself, but _knowing _it didn't mean he understood it and he didn't know if he_ wanted _to understand.

If he wanted to believe.

If he wanted to _doubt._

"No," Billy said, because where Rick was scrambling to make sense of it, Billy had already made his peace. "The ODS." He paused, letting it sink in.

Simms was visibly trembling now, the gun still raised even as it wavered precariously.

Billy pressed on, and Rick felt his stomach bottom out as the horrifying realization settled over him oppressively. But Billy wasn't shocked. He wasn't angry or enraged or upset. He was just sure, certain; resigned: "Isn't that right, Carson?"


	7. INTERLUDE

****A/N: And here's a look at how this mess really started. Thanks for those sticking with this! I'll try to get review replies out today :)

**INTERLUDE  
**_  
THREE YEARS AGO – North Africa  
_  
Months of planning, years of intelligence, and it was all for nothing with thirty minutes. They had one chance – make it or break it – and Carson considered himself the realist of the group, but he'd actually thought they'd pull another miracle out of their asses and get it done.

After all, that was what the ODS did. The ODS was a walking impossibility, four disparate personalities, coming together to make one scary-good team. Michael was the brains, Casey was the strength. Billy was the soul, and Carson was the only one among them with a lick of common sense to make sure they didn't implode on their way to saving the whole damn world.

It wasn't perfect, but it was damn close. They were good. The best.

It was their last surveillance sweep, and Carson had taken the north face of the compound while Billy ran along to the south. They were going to meet up on the eastern side before heading back to the city for a rendezvous with Michael and Casey before their raid tomorrow.

Easy-peasy, and even if Carson didn't like the sun, he was moving at a good clip. There was no sign of anything weird, which was good, and he was rounding the last major outcropping when he noticed the glint.

Heart skipping a beat, he pulled hard to cover, flattening himself against the fence line, just in case. Keeping himself still, he eyed his surroundings, looking for anything amiss.

Just open desert, a strong fence and a hell of a lot of sand.

Nothing.

Frowning, he knew he needed to keep moving. All those years with Michael was rubbing off on him; the team only needed one paranoid bastard. Besides, if he hurried he might beat Billy back and show the kid that youth didn't always trump experience.

Moving along, he picked up his pace, ignoring the trails of sweat running down his shirt. He grimaced. He was getting too old for fieldwork. Getting to old for all this crap, period. Maybe he needed to retire. Michael would have a fit and Casey would stop talking to him, and he'd probably break the kid's heart, but they'd get along without him all right.

Some things were just meant to be, and no matter what they did, they'd understand.

But first, he needed to get back and shove his time in Billy's Scottish face.

At a jog, he turned the corner and saw the glint again. His stomach tightened and he pulled himself to a stop just in time to see the movement. He turned, on the defensive, and lashed out, taking the wayward guard out with a single punch.

He had no defense, however, against the next guard. Or the next.

He didn't know if it was an ambush or just bad damn luck, but the glinting in the distance became clearer – a truck approaching, softly on the sands – and he was forced to his knees as the truck came to a stop and the door opened.

The man who stepped out was clad in white, hair meticulous and smile predatory. "Ah, we have a guest!" he said.

Carson gritted his teeth, and struggled to stay calm, saying nothing. He was a spy, and a good one. He would say_ nothing._

The man took of his sunglasses, and Simms recognized him from the file. Ernesto Salazar. Upcoming counterfeiter and mean son of a bitch.

He approached, inclining his head. "Next time, you can use the front door," he said. "I'm afraid I will have to repay your rudeness with a less hospitable turn of my own."

Carson frowned, confused, and he didn't see the blow to the head that stole his consciousness away.

-o-

It was days like these that Carson wondered why he had become a spy.

Really.

In the beginning, he supposed it had seemed noble. Fighting for his country, risking his life for some greater good. Plus, he was good at it. He could lie and he could plan, and he had enough common sense to handle high risk situations without getting himself blown to shreds. All in all, it had seemed like a good fit, and he'd spent a lot of time feeling like he'd found his calling in life.

But the things was, it was hard work. And common sense wasn't always enough. One tough scrape became two, became three, became four. Each mission was more draining than the last, and Casey got a kick out of being a shadow warrior and Michael was too paranoid to ever settle down as a civilian anyway and Billy ran around like it was a lark in order to avoid facing the fact that he actually didn't have any other choices in life. But Carson wasn't some shadow warrior. He knew how to turn his brain off and enjoy the simple pleasures in life. And he had_ options._

Hell, he could make a killing in the private sector. And not even security like too many CIA washouts. Give him a damn cubicle and let him peddle wares and he'd make a killing. People liked him, trusted him. It wouldn't be too hard to become the office winner, flourishing in a way the CIA never let him.

It wasn't that he resented his job; it was just that he was tired of it. There was no crime in that. He'd given a lot to his country – years of his life, really – and if he wanted to walk away, there was no harm in that.

No harm at all.

Casey, Billy and Michael, however, would flip out on him, which was probably why he hadn't brought it up with them. But they'd understand eventually. Because the thing with working with the best was that they had probably figured out that he wasn't long for this job, sooner than he had.

In case Carson had had any doubts, though, there he was, semiconscious on his knees while armed men poked him with the barrels of their guns.

Their very large guns.

And a smirking counterfeiter stood above him, gloating.

"I had not realized that my operations were large enough to attract such notice," Salazar said. Simms had only been out a few minutes, so not much had changed. There were a few more guards now, and he was positioned in the middle of a semi-circle, the fence he'd been passing around at his back. Salazar was pacing in front of him casually. "In some ways, I am truly flattered."

Simms hadn't survived this long without learning a thing or two. When captured by the bad guy who already pretty much knew who you were, it was time to shut the hell up.

Purposefully, Carson kept his mouth clamped tight, glaring up in the glinting sunlight at his captor.

Salazar shrugged. "However, you can probably understand that it is still something I cannot tolerate," he said. "We all have appearances, do we not?"

Carson didn't give a rat's ass about appearances. Mentally, he considered the possibility of rescue, but realized that it was unlikely any time soon. He'd been moving fast enough to double Billy's rate, so the kid wouldn't even be at their meet point yet to know he was AWOL. Even then, Salazar looked ready to take care of business, and Carson was good but he wasn't sure he could stall that long.

Which meant—

Carson's stomach clenched. Which meant he was mostly screwed. Dead, at worst. Captive, at best.

A whole flipping career in the Agency, and he was going to end outside some crappy compound in North Africa.

Salazar paused, eyeing him scrupulously. "You look American," he said. "CIA?"

Carson didn't say anything; if he was going to get screwed over, he was going to do it with a semblance of dignity – not that it was worth much, but when it was all he had…

"Ah, yes," Salazar said, clearly bemused. "A spy does not give up his identity, I forget such things. And I can respect that, I can. But if you continue to ignore me, I may have to get more creative in my means."

Carson made a face, the nonverbal equivalent to go-sit-on-a-stick-dick-wad.

Salazar sighed. "I am new at this," he said. "And I don't find it a particularly pleasant sort of thing. Maybe we can come to a conclusion that is mutually beneficial?"

Mutually beneficial for a wanted international criminal. Carson figured he could be forgiven if he was a bit skeptical on that one.

"See, I do not blame your government for being interested in my activities," Salazar continued. "As I said, I find it flattering. But I am concerned about how I have been compromised. You are doing your job, just as I am. And we can both continue to do our jobs, same as ever, if we just have a simple exchange of information."

There was an appealing logic to that, because Carson was a practical man. Honestly, Salazar wasn't a bloodthirsty thug. Killing wasn't part of his MO. He just financed others to do killing as they saw fit; he was sort of non-discriminating in that way. But nothing had suggested that he had used extensive violence in his own rise to power. So it was entirely possible that he didn't _want _to do that now.

Carson just made things awfully inconvenient, being caught red-handed with no ID and no viable cover story for his activities.

Salazar's gaze intensified. "I think you can agree that such an exchange will be far more pleasant."

Pleasant. Carson hadn't joined the Agency to be pleasant.

But he was certainly thinking about quitting it for some variation of that.

He didn't want to be rich. He didn't want to be famous. He just wanted to be happy and safe and _what the hell—_

None of that was going to happen because he was going to get his damn head blown off and for what? A stupid mission that hadn't gotten them anywhere yet? Salazar was still a small fish in a big sea, and really, what was one more criminal? If Simms had learned anything, it was that no matter how many successful missions they had, it would never be enough. There was going to be evil, just like there was going to be good, and the CIA ran around trying to right the balance in vain.

Carson Simms was going to die for _nothing._

And he didn't have to.

Cautious, he took a breath. "What sort of information do you think I have?" he asked, guarded, confirming or denying nothing.

Salazar looked surprised to hear him speak, but pleased. "Just your case file," he said. "I want to know how much your government is aware of and where they have gleaned their intelligence. Such information will easily allow me to rectify any lapses in security and to better avoid such infiltrations in the future."

Essentially, he wanted Carson to give him a get out of jail free card. If he knew the file the CIA had, he would know how to get around it. He would know what assets to burn and where to hide out. Carson would enable Ernesto Salazar to flourish.

Carson shook his head. "No way, man," he said. "You're nuts."

Salazar looked genuinely disappointed. "Pity," he said. "I am afraid I may have to up my security efforts, then. With my men here, they are leaving other portions of the gate vacant. I can only imagine what they'll find when they resume a more aggressive search pattern."

Carson's heart skipped a beat, and it took all his self control not to flinch. They knew he wasn't alone. Or, if they didn't, they'd deduced it well enough. They had Carson, which was bad enough, but if they got Billy…

Salazar smiled. "We are not so bad at security as you think," he said. "We have been watching you and your companion for some time now. You are working with three other men, yes? And only one is here? Are the others coming for a raid tomorrow?"

Carson's stomach twisted and he felt violently ill. They'd been compromised. Maybe from the beginning, maybe not. It wasn't clear how they'd gotten tagged, but ultimately, it didn't matter. Salazar was onto them, and that meant the entire thing was a damn bust.

He'd walked into a trap. They_ all _had walked into a trap. After Carson, they'd take Billy. Then they'd wait for Casey and Michael and_ damn it._

It was over. The entire thing was over. There would be no retirement, there'd be no ongoing career. There'd be_ nothing _because he'd be dead – and so would the rest of his team.a

Salazar was watching him. "You can save their lives, you know," he said. "I do not want to kill them, and you can help me avoid that."

Carson swallowed hard, and numbly faced the reality that there was no way out. There was _no way out._

He took a breath, chest tight and eyes burning. "How?"

Salazar's smile returned. "The same as before," he said. "I want the file."

Carson scoffed. "And how the hell am I supposed to produce something like that?"

"Oh, I know you do not have it on you," Salazar said. "Which is why I am going to let you go and return it to me."

Carson stared for a moment. "You're going to let me go?" he asked, incredulous.

Salazar nodded readily. "Certainly," he said.

Carson laughed. "And then why the hell would I come back?"

Salazar looked amused again. "We have photos of you," he said. "Clear ones, that can confirm your identity. We also have photos of your companions. I am sure there are other people who might be quite interested in the identity of CIA agents, this is true?"

Carson ground his teeth together.

"If you do not return, I will sell this information to the highest bidder and let them do what they want," he said. "Some may be interested in death. Others may like to use you all as scapegoats. There are so many unsavory characters in the world."

Frustration mounting, Carson shook his head. "So you let me go, and I get the information," he said. "And then what if I bring back an entire unit to go postal on your little operation here?"

Salazar chuckled. "My information on you has already been secured at an outside source that I will not confirm or deny," he said. "If you move to destroy me, then I will move to destroy you all."

The reality of it was almost overwhelming. No, it_ was _overwhelming.

"This is a lot to take in," Salazar said. "But it does not have to be so bad. You go, find the file and come back. Do not tell your teammates, and they never have to know how you compromised yourself and them. They never have to know anything."

"It's going to be kind of hard to not mention the fact when I'm bringing you a_ file,_" Carson snapped.

"Never worry of such things," Salazar said. "I imagine your raid tomorrow will not go as well as you expect."

Carson paled, shaking his head. "I'm not leading them into a trap."

"No, no, of course not!" Salazar said. "Bring them and let yourself get lost in the confusion. Meet up with me on the east side. They are smart and capable; they will get out with no problems and you can meet up with them, with no one the wiser."

"Except that you'll have my file," he said.

"Well, yes," Salazar said, his eyes bright. "Which will ensure that you never tell anyone about our little…arrangement."

Carson huffed, but didn't know what to say. What could he say? What options did he have? He could die here – he could give up his life, just like he always said he would – but for what? So his team could die, too? This mission was a lost cause – they wouldn't gain any intel from it. If he died, his team would die, too, and _for nothing._

Or Carson could survive. He could give Salazar what he wanted and walk away from this. Walk away from everything. Finish this mission, leave the CIA, and let his team go on, none the wiser. Salazar would have his file, but it wouldn't mean anything to him if he wasn't an active agent. It wouldn't_mean anything._

The mission was already a wash. They didn't need to die for it.

They didn't need to die, period.

Carson took a breath, then another. The decision made, he felt himself calm, looking up at Salazar's dark eyes. "Okay," he said. "I'll do it."

"Wonderful!" Salazar said. "I believe you have made the right choice."

Grunting, Carson wished he could believe it. All he knew, though, was that it was really the only choice he had.

-o-

When Carson got to the checkpoint, Billy was already there. There was brief flicker of concern on his features, but when he saw Carson approach, seemingly unharmed, his features lit up with boyish charm.

"Youth wins the day again!" he crowed. "I had you by at least thirty minutes. Took you so long, I was about to scout ahead and make sure you hadn't pulled up lame or something in the last stretch."

Carson, stiff and aching, managed a small smile. "What can I say," he said with a shrug. "I'm just not the man I used to be."

Billy chuckled. "Aw, don't be so glum, Carson," he cajoled. "We still love you, even though you're somewhat old and crotchety. You're one of the team, and that still means everything."

Carson forced a smile, the movement tiny but opening up a yawning hurt inside of him. "I hope so, kid," he said, feeling weary and old. He squinted behind him, where the sun was starting to descend to the horizon. "I really hope so."

-o-

Back at the rendezvous, they didn't expect a thing. They joked; they planned; they talked crap.

And they didn't know that they'd been found out. That the mission was a wash. That Carson had sold them out to save them.  
_  
They didn't know.  
_  
He could tell them. He thought about telling them. Hell, he started the conversation five times but he never got very far. Because Michael was planning; Casey was prepping; Billy was primping.

If he told them, they might lose everything. The ODS was good, but they weren't as good as they thought they were. If Carson played his hand wrong, Salazar could destroy them.

Of course, Salazar could still destroy them. Carson was placing his trust in an apparent megalomaniac with ambitions for criminal greatness. Not exactly encouraging.

But he could have killed Carson, and he didn't. He could have captured Billy, and he didn't.

There was still one chance they could all walk away. Still one chance that the ODS could keep fighting the good fight.

Still once chance that Carson could retire and leave all of this behind him.

Once and for all.

-o-

When they got back to the compound, Michael sounded like he had it all under control. He was thorough and detailed. Casey rejoined with confidence. Billy was even smiling.

Carson had no choice but to go along, but he found himself hoping they'd still walk away.

But they were in too deep now to turn back. Carson understood that. That was why he was still here.

What was about to happen wasn't Carson's fault. Salazar had known already; Simms had had no choice but to comply. It_ wasn't his fault._

It sure as hell felt like it was, though.

-o-

Inside, Carson had to remind himself to breathe. Next to him, Billy was moving stealthily, looking back at him in concern.

"You okay, mate?" he asked, brow just slightly furrowed.

Carson laughed. "Any reason why it shouldn't be?"

"You just seem a touch off, is all," Billy told him, voice low and hushed. "Though I can't totally blame you. There's something about this mission…doesn't seem quite right, does it?"

Billy had no idea. Carson kept close to him, pressing through the abandoned corridors. They were looking for Salazar, and Billy was clearly expecting a confrontation. Carson knew that wasn't going to happen, though. At least not the way Billy expected it to.

"I mean, we haven't seen a single guard our entire time in here," Billy mused. "That's remarkable. Some kind of luck, I tell you."

Luck, yes, Carson didn't disagree. Just not the good kind.

-o-

The empty corridors were starting to freak Billy out. "This doesn't feel right," he murmured, pulling around another vacant corner. "Maybe we mistimed this."

Carson's chest clenched.

Billy stopped, shaking his head. "Maybe we should go back, check in with Michael."

Of all the times for the kid to display a semblance of common sense. The empty corridors were a dead giveaway to a setup, and Billy was starting to let his doubts build.

But walking away now wasn't an option. Hell, it probably never had been.

But maybe it was. Maybe he could tell Billy. The kid would understand. Wouldn't blame him. He'd help him deal with Salazar, help him_ fix this._

Billy was watching him, earnest, blue eyes worried. "And you don't look so good," he said. "You sure you're feeling okay?"

Carson swallowed hard, feeling his eyes burn. A lump formed in his throat, and he forced out a breath. "This whole thing is a mess," he said, wishing this were easier.

Billy cocked his head, questioning. There was just a hint of understanding there, the tendrils of acknowledging that something was wrong. Not just with the mission, but with Carson. With everything.

It was a risk telling Billy, but it was a risk not telling him. Some risks were worth taking. He was already leading his entire team into a trap – they'd rather know the truth. They'd rather _know._

Carson swore, ducking his head and rubbing a hand over his forehead. "There's something I need to tell you—"

But before he could continue, an explosion rocked the building. The force threw him off his feet, sending him toward the wall. He caught a glimpse of Billy slumping to the ground before the world blacked out again.

-o-

Carson woke to the smell of smoke.

Scrunching his nose, he shifted, trying to sit up, and sharp pain flared in his head.

Groaning, he laid there for a moment, feeling the hard floor beneath his head. When the pain subsided to an ache, he opened his eyes again and looked up.

The corridor was still abandoned, but hazy now with smoke. There was a crack in the far wall, and the lights were flickering.

An explosion.

He swore. Salazar wasn't stupid. Even leaving the facility behind would be a loose end. He had never planned to give the ODS that much. This far away from the source, Carson was mostly safe, but Casey and Michael…and Billy—

Sitting up, Carson squinted. Billy was sprawled not far from him, body folded over and pressed awkwardly against the wall. The force had clearly thrown him head first, and as he scooted over, he saw the blood down the kid's face.

Wincing, Carson rolled the kid gently, and Billy flopped onto his back, head lolling. He sucked in a breath, but looked past the blood and saw that the wound wasn't nearly as bad as it looked. He pressed two fingers to Billy's neck, feeling the steady pulse there. Billy had taken a knock to the head, no doubt, but he'd had worse.

Carson glanced down the corridor, remembering Salazar's orders. If this explosion was any indication, Salazar wasn't messing around. The blast might as well have been one last warning to Simms to let him know just what Salazar was capable of.

If Simms didn't show up…

An explosion would be the least of his problems.

He looked again at Billy. He could probably rouse the kid, but he'd just have to ditch him again anyway. No, this was his chance to make a clean break. Hell, he could leave and be back before Billy even regained consciousness. Leaving him unconscious was a risk – the kid was vulnerable like this – but Salazar was packed to leave. There were no guards.

This was Carson's chance. Telling Billy would have been a mistake. That much was clear to him now. He needed to do this alone.

His eyes lingered on Billy just for a moment more, before looking with determination down the hallway.

He needed to do this.

-o-

The smoke thickened as Carson made his way through the corridors. He couldn't see any fire, but he could smell it, thickening the ozone until his lungs started to burn. Salazar apparently hadn't worked much wiggle room into the schedule, probably because he was one cocky son of a bitch.

And because he had everything ready to go, Carson realized. When he turned the corner to the entrance Salazar had specify, it was mostly empty, just a few Jeeps left, geared up and running. Salazar was smoking a cigar, looking out the back garage, his lightweight suit a soft shade of tan and his summer sun hat positioned jauntily on his head.

Carson made a move forward, but was immediately accosted by two guards. Instinct told him to struggle, but their large guns were rather compelling counterarguments.

Glancing over, Salazar smiled. He tossed the last bit of his cigar, grounding it into the cement floor before he walked over, hands out. "Ah, my friend!" he said. "Come, come." He waved away the guards. "I do not believe such force is necessary. Mr. Simms is a friend now, correct?"

Carson felt stiff as he cast a wary eye at the guards, who stepped back obediently. He kept himself very still, turning a focused gaze at Salazar. "As your friend, I should tell you it's not nice to set fires when company comes."

Salazar offered him a look of mock hurt. "Friends are also supposed to use the doorbell," he said. "And your unfortunate company barged right in."

Something like guilt roiled in his gut. He shook his head. "If anything happened to them—"

Making a face, Salazar tutted. "You'll what?" he asked. "Please, the preliminary blasts were not designed to kill. Your friends are smart, correct? They will have plenty of time to get out before the subsequent explosions."

It hurt to keep himself still, but Carson did. "You're all heart, Salazar," he muttered.

Salazar smiled grandly. "I like to think that I am a fair man," he said. Then he shrugged. "At least, when people keep their word. You have kept your word with me?"

Breathing in, Carson knew this was his last chance. If he held out, Salazar would probably kill him and kill the team and take what he wanted anyway. He thought of Michael and Casey and Billy. They would die for the mission, if given an ultimatum.

But that was why they needed Carson. He was the practical one. Who knew that dying for the job wasn't all that it was cracked up to be.

It wasn't anything at all.

Feeling bitter, Carson reached inside his jacket, pulling out the papers he had tucked there. They were tightly folded. Getting them out of the hotel room without Michael noticing had been the hardest part of the whole mess.

Well, the second hardest part.

The hardest part was handing them over to Salazar, knowing just what he was doing.

He was selling out. For good reasons, maybe even the right reasons, but selling out nonetheless.

Salazar smiled, fingers closing on the papers. Simms hesitated just for a moment, then let go.

Eyeing him curiously, Salazar opened the papers, then glanced down. He read for a moment before he nodded. "Very good," he said, folding them back up. He smiled broadly at Carson. "So we part as friends, then, yes?"

"I don't care how the hell we part," Carson snapped. "I just want to get out of here."

"By all means, then," Salazar said, waving his hand toward the exit. "Do not let me keep you. Things are going to get warm in here very soon, though. I would recommend all due haste."

Carson didn't have to be told twice. He could feel the growing heat, smell the uptick in the smoke. There was a fire – and it was spreading. It was only a matter of time before the whole place went up in a fireball.

And Carson didn't want to be inside when that happened.

He had turned around, halfway back to the door when he heard the familiar voice.

"Well, come on now, gents, I think this is possibly one large and very unfortunate misunderstanding."

Carson's stomach went cold. Billy.

The last he'd seen the kid, he'd been unconscious in the hallway. He'd hoped to pick the Scot up on his way out, or maybe that the kid would have been smart enough to see himself out.

But maybe he hadn't gotten that far.

"See, I just got turned around a bit," Billy continued, his voice audible down the hallway. "I was looking for a friend of mine. Tallish, hair like a silver fox. He's prone to these fits, you see. Wanders off at the damnedest times, and—"

Or maybe Billy had come looking for him.

And found Salazar's men instead.

"I'm sensing, though, that perhaps you're not so concerned about my explanations," Billy said, voice overly serene in that forced way of his, when he was trying like hell to talk himself out of the impossible. "So if it's all the same to you, you can just point me to the door and—"

There was a meaty smack and then a sickening thump, and then the corridors went eerily silent again. Carson was frozen where he was, unable to move as two guards with large guns rounded the corner, dragging Billy behind them.

When they saw Salazar, they dropped Billy in a heap, adjusting their stance with their hands on their guns before talking in Spanish.

Carson shook his head, stepping back up. "You said you'd leave them alone," he said, eyes flitting to Billy, who hadn't twitched. The side of his face was covered in blood, a large gash opened up high on his forehead.

Salazar cocked his head. "I did not seek your friends out, just as I promised," he said. He glanced at Billy, shrugging. "It seems your friend was eager to join us, however."

"He was coming after me," Carson said.

"Your failure to control your teammates is not my concern," Salazar said, and he made a move to leave.

"Hey," Carson said. "So, what? I can take him back with me?"

Salazar stopped, looking back at him. "I said you could leave with your life and your reputation intact," he said. "I made no other assurances."

Carson's brow furrowed. "The kid doesn't know anything," he said. "He got worried when I split off. I'll just tell him I found him in the hall—"

"And you overpowered both guards?" Salazar asked, skeptical. "Come now, Mr. Simms. I can appreciate your sentiment, but you must see that he is an unacceptable loose end."

For a second, Carson didn't understand. Didn't_ want _to understand. He looked at Billy, sprawled and limp on the floor.

Then he looked at Salazar, already talking to one of his men as the last few supplies were uploaded onto the remaining trucks.

He laughed in disbelief and shook his head. "I can't just leave him here."

Salazar regarded him coolly. "If you wish to die with him, that is your business."

"But he doesn't have to_ die,_" Carson said, almost pleading now. "Come on, I gave you what you want. You can shake every damn spy agency in the world. He's _nothing _to you."

"You are right," Salazar agreed. "He is nothing. Do you wish to risk your life after all this for_ nothing_?"

It was an ultimatum, veiled in nice speeches and good etiquette. Carson was being given a choice: go or stay. If he went, he could still walk away. Leave this behind. Leave Billy behind to die.

If he stayed, they'd both die. Even if Carson fought for it, he'd never get very far before he was down with a shot to the chest. Salazar would win.

Salazar had already won.

Walking away wasn't the right thing to do. But then again, it wasn't necessarily the wrong thing either. Spy work had no absolutes. There was always a gray area. The further along in it Carson went, the grayer it seemed.

The thought of leaving Billy behind hurt. It _ached. _Because Billy had come back for him, because Billy believed in him, because Billy was as much a friend as Carson Simms had left. Because they were teammates, and that was what teammates did.

Those were ideals Carson had lived by.

Ideals Carson wasn't sure he wanted to die by.

There was no sense to it. Billy wasn't dying for nothing.

But Carson dying with him wouldn't make it better.

Salazar was right. The slimy weasel was _right._

Simms didn't want to risk his life for _nothing._

He didn't want to risk his life at all.

Salazar snapped his fingers, and the guards moved, leaving Billy prone on the floor as they geared up. Carson had the urge to bend over and try grabbing Billy anyway, but Salazar gave him a disparaging look. "Really, my friend," he said. "You'll be dead before you pull him up."

Simms glanced from Salazar to the guard next to him, gun still up.

And he looked at Billy again. Unconscious, unaware. He'd come for Carson.

And Carson was going to leave him behind.

The heat was growing, the smoke thicker. He was out of time; he was out of options. It was time to figure it out, just who he was and just what his priorities were.

The thing was, Simms had known for a while now. It confirmed all his doubts, all his suspicions.

Still, when he turned away from Billy and started to run, he'd never thought it would hurt so much.

Or that he wouldn't even look back.

-o-

Simms ran.

The fire was growing at his back, and even as he ran, he could hear it. A series of smaller explosions shook the building, but Simms put his hand out, steadied himself and just kept going. The network of corridors seemed long and unforgiving; he thought he might not make it, that he might get lost in his own escape plan.

So when the door came up, he was actually surprised, choking on the smoke as he pushed through it and stumbled into the sunlight.

It was glaringly bright, blinding him, and he found himself hacking.

He still didn't stop.

He ran until he couldn't feel his legs, ran until he couldn't breathe, just_ ran._

Until he almost ran right into Michael.

As stunned as Simms was, Michael was even more clearly thrown. Simms had to steady him, had to stop him from going back.

Because Michael wasn't going to give up. The minute Simms told him Billy was gone, the minute Simms said the kid was dead, Michael's mind was made up. Michael wasn't going to leave a man behind.

Because Michael was a good leader. Michael was a good spy. Michael was a good person. He'd go back, even if it got him killed.

Simms tried lying; he tried holding him back. He _tried._

Salazar did it for him. One last explosion and Michael was thrown to the ground, dazed and disoriented.

And for a second, Simms thought about running. Thought about just cutting loose right now, burn his team and head for a new life, no strings attached. But Michael was still trying to get to his feet and Casey was up the road, in need of help, and Billy was dead.

Simms was the only one left.

Suddenly, there was still some black and white left. There was just enough left to make one last stand. Simms had sold out; he compromised his team; he'd gotten Billy killed.

Simms could maybe justify that, but he couldn't justify running now. Because there was hope for the rest of them. If he did this for Michael and Casey, he needed to be there for Michael and Casey. He hadn't wanted to leave Billy behind, but there hadn't been a choice.

There was a choice now.

And Simms had taken too much for himself. He had to give this much back. He left Billy behind; but he couldn't leave Michael, he couldn't leave Casey.

No matter how much he wanted to.

Maybe it was penance, maybe Simms still wanted to do the right thing, maybe it was guilt. But when Simms forfeited Billy's life, he'd really forfeited his own.

Dragging Michael back toward Casey, getting what was left of his team out, he wondered for the first time if that price had been worth it.


	8. SECTION SIX

A/n: Close to the end here. Sorry I'm a little late! One more to go after this.

**SECTION SIX  
**_  
PRESENT DAY – Panama  
_  
-o-

Rick had learned to expect the unexpected with the ODS, but this—

This was so far beyond unexpected. It was downright impossible. It was one of the things that he'd felt safe in assuming would never happen because there was no way to predict this would happen.

There was no way this_ could _happen.

And yet, here he was.

Standing at gunpoint, Ernesto Salazar unconscious at his feet. Outside, the compound was burning and in a state of uncontrolled chaos. Michael and Casey were out there – somewhere – and the man who would probably cost Rick his job had just come in from nowhere to save Rick's ass, despite the fact that Rick was the one who was supposed to be doing the rescuing.

All that was what it was.

But the person holding the gun?

Carson Simms.  
_  
Carson Simms.  
_  
Someone Rick had trusted, someone Rick had thought he'd known. Someone he hadn't doubted, someone he'd come back for.

Someone Billy was accusing of being a traitor.

Carson's face was taut, a mix of rage and resignation. He shook his head. "It's not that simple," he said.

Billy had approached, was standing next to Rick now. "No?" he asked. "So you're not the one who compromised the mission three years ago?"

Rick's mind raced, swallowing as he tried to understand. The mission three years ago. North Africa, where they'd first met Salazar. Where they'd lost Billy.

Carson shook his head, face twisting even further, his gun not wavering. "I'm telling you, it's not that _simple._"

"I've had a lot of time to think about that mission," Billy said, his words quiet but unapologetic. "Not much else to fill my time, you see. And I thought, how was it that Salazar had the entire place rigged to go up, just like that. We're spies; we know there's no such thing as coincidence."

Carson laughed, a bitter, cruel sound. "Salazar figured that out all on his own," he said. "He had us pegged probably from the start, you just didn't know it."

Rick's hair stood up on end. It wasn't an overt admission of guilt, but its meaning was clear. Simms had known something. Given that Simms was in Salazar's office, trying to murder him, he knew a hell of a lot more.

Billy didn't flinch. Instead he nodded. "But you did," he concluded.

Something gave in Simms' expression, something broken and desperate. "Son of a bitch nabbed me on our last pass," he said.

"And what did he offer you?" Billy pressed.

Carson's face turned to rage again. "Nothing, man!" he said, the gun flailing a little bit. Rick found himself trembling, virtually defenseless with the pistol trained on him at this range. "Is that what you think I did? That I took cash to let the rest of you walk into a trap?"

"You have to admit, mate, it looks a bit damning," Billy said, shrugging just a little. "Michael and Casey were on the other side of the compound where the explosion was. When I came to, you were gone. When I went to find you, I found two guards instead. I told you my theory on coincidences. You wouldn't leave me behind—"

"Unless it was the only way to save you," Carson snapped. "You really think I wanted this to happen? You think I didn't think of any way I could to save all of you? Salazar didn't offer me money; he told me if I didn't come with the file we had on him, he'd kill you."

Rick found it difficult to breathe, his mind still struggling with understanding the gun waving in his face. Rick hadn't been on the mission three years ago – he barely knew anything about it – but this was as much emotion as he'd ever seen from his teammate. It was raw; it was honest.

It explained more than Rick wanted to admit.

Carson wasn't indifferent.

He'd sold out.

"So why not tell us?" Billy asked. "We would have helped—"

"And Salazar would have turned our photos and covers over to the highest bidder," Simms said. "He had us cornered. We were screwed either way."

"So you agreed to give him the file," Billy said.

Carson sighed. "I agreed to do what was best for all of us," he retorted.

But it wasn't that simple, and they all knew it. Because Billy had gone missing, and the ODS never recovered, and here Rick was at gunpoint trying to clean up a mess that he couldn't even begin to understand.

"And I followed you," Billy realized. "I messed up the plan."

There was a moment of real pain on Carson's face, eyes bright. "I tried to talk him out of it," he said. "Hell, I begged him. But he was going to kill me, man. He was going to kill us both if I stayed. I thought..."

His voice trailed off, his shoulders slumping.

Rick gaped, heart thundering, not wanting to finish the sentence in his head.

But Billy said it for all of them. "But you thought there was no point in both of us dying."

It was harsh, and Rick realized how human it sounded. He tried to imagine what it'd be like, to know the choice was to stay and die for a friend or to leave and save his own life. This was what Carson meant, how you always save yourself.

Most people did.

But not all people.

His team hadn't left him to die in South America. They hadn't left him behind in Russia. And Billy hadn't left him alone in an enemy's house.

Yet here Simms was, holding a gun on him.

It was human.

It was _wrong._

Carson's face looked pained and he swallowed with difficulty. "I wasn't a traitor, man," he said, shaking his head. "You have to believe me. I wasn't a traitor."

Billy didn't move, not forward or backward, and his expression softened just slightly even as his shoulders squared, pressing just slightly closer to Rick "I know that," he said. "You were in a position that had no good solution. That doesn't make you a traitor. But this, right here – if you pull that trigger – _then _you'll be a traitor."

Rick sucked in a breath and held it, watching as Carson's expression wavered, tinged with grief. The older man took a shuddering breath. "I have to fix it," he said. "Salazar knows too much. If he still has the file, then we're all still in jeopardy. We need to kill him and torch the place, that's the only way—"

"And what if he has it somewhere else?" Billy asked.

"And how will we explain it to the CIA?" Rick said, finding his voice.

The gun came up again, more erratic now. "Who the hell cares about the CIA?" he said. "Screw the CIA! This is bigger than Langley."

Rick shook his head. "We could be arrested—"

"And Salazar could get us killed!" Simms said. "If we bring him back alive, he'll roll on me, just that fast—"

And that was one of the most critical elements of this. If Salazar lived, then Carson Simms would be outed. There was no telling what the repercussions would be. At the least, he'd be kicked out of the Agency. At the worst, there would be criminal charges.

Simms had never lied to him. In the end, he always chose himself.

Rick's conscience flared and his sense of duty overcame his shock. "We can't kill him," he said. "We have a duty—"

"So, what, you're going to throw me to the wolves, kid?" Carson asked, jabbing the gun toward him.

Billy edged closer to him, hands out, disarming. "He's just telling you the truth," Billy said.

Carson's eyes darted between them, his stance tense as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"You made a mistake three years ago," Billy said. "No one will fault you for it. You had no choice. But you do have a choice now."

Carson's brow furrowed. "I left you for dead, man," he said, almost whining now. "I destroyed us all. If Langley doesn't throw me in prison, Michael and Casey will kill me."

"They won't," Billy said. "We can figure it out. We're a team. Isn't that what we do?"

A team. They'd do anything for each other._ Anything._

Simms was human; he was selfish. He'd left Billy to die once, and Rick could see the temptation to do it again.

But Billy wasn't offering him a way out.

He was offering absolution.

And Rick didn't know a lot, but he knew now that that was the thing that Carson Simms needed more than anything else.

Carson stood stiffly, gun still up, position unchanged. His face wavered, his expression broke, and his hand started to drop.

Then, from the hallway, there was a commotion.

Carson lifted his gun again, eyes going wide.

Rick turned just in time to see the flash of movement before something exploded from the back of the house. Rick rocked on his feet, lurching unsteadily forward toward Simms.

Right as the gun went off.

-o-

Rick hit the ground hard, the contact reverberating through his backside and sending sharp pain up his arm. There was already a haze of smoke in the room, a muffled sound of voices and the_ rat-a-tat _of gunfire being exchanged.

Rick blinked, mouth open. He could still hear the shot from Simms' gun. Close range, too close to miss. He could smell the discharge, almost_ taste _it.

But when he looked down, there was no blood.

Not his chest, his stomach. Not his arms or his legs or anywhere.

He wasn't hit.

He almost laughed, giddy with relief. Somehow, Simms had missed. Maybe it was the force of the explosion, maybe it was just Simms' distraction; maybe it was just luck for once.

Sitting up, still gaping, Rick looked around. Carson was on the floor, pushing his way back up. Salazar was still unconscious, apparently oblivious to this turn of events. And Billy…

Billy was sprawled next to Rick on his back, head tilted up as he looked down the length of his body. Rick frowned for a second, trying to make sense of the image.

Sitting up now, he scooted closer to get a better look. And that's when he saw Billy's hands, lifting up from his stomach, wet and stained dark red.

Blood, Rick realized.

It was all over Billy's fingers, staining his tattered shirt.

And suddenly Rick understood. It wasn't the explosion; it wasn't Simms' distraction. And it sure as hell wasn't luck.

Simms hadn't missed at all.

Billy had just shoved Rick out of the way and taken the shot.

For a second, Rick could only stare.

Then, Billy's breath caught, hitching with a shuddering gasp, his entire body starting to tremble, and Rick's sense came back to him. Billy had been shot. Billy had been shot _for Rick._

On his hands and knees, Rick crossed the distance, pushing away Billy's hands and pulling at the ruined shirt. Beneath him, Billy bucked weakly.

"'s not so bad," Billy said, blood-stained fingers leaving dark streaks on the floor.

Rick gritted his teeth, lifting up the fabric to get a look. At first it was hard to see with all the blood, but the small, puckered wound was high in Billy's abdomen, leaking fresh red blood with every beat of the Scot's frantically pounding heart.

Billy took another uneven breath. "Though, it feels a mite—" he cut off with a grimace, "—uncomfortable."

Rick froze for a moment, just looking at it. He thought about Billy's desk and the poetry. Billy was a man who was willing to die for his friends. For people he hardly knew. He was willing to give a second chance to the person who had nearly cost him everything.

He didn't deserve this. They'd found Billy, alive and okay, and he didn't deserve_ this._ To be bleeding and shot and—

Rick found his resolve and locked his jaw. Shrugging out of his jacket, he balled it up, pressing it down hard on the wound, wincing as Billy cried out with fresh pain. His head dropped back, his body trembling harder now, fingers clenched into bloody fists as tears sprung to his eyes.

"You were chained to a bed for three years," Rick reminded him in a feeble attempt to joke. "This is nothing."

Billy rolled his gaze back to Rick, smiling weakly. "Aye," he said. "I'd rather—" He cut off, his breath leaving him for a moment. His pallor went gray but he swallowed hard. "I'd rather die free."

Something painful twisted in Rick's gut. He shook his head, ignoring the sting of tears behind his eyes. "You're not dying at all," Rick promised. "That'd be a pretty crappy rescue, wouldn't it?"

Billy looked ready to speak, but a curse distracted them both. Rick looked up, surprised to see Carson standing above him. He was still holding the gun, hair disarrayed and a cut trickling blood down his face.

Carson swore again, face blank before breaking with a bereft sob. "What did you do, you idiot?" he asked, voice broken.

Billy was shaking, but his voice was still clear. "Couldn't let you shoot him," he said. "You'd never – never forgive yourself—"

His voice trailed off, his body stiffening with pain as he squeezed his eyes shut and tears leaked out.

Carson nearly doubled over, hovering just above Rick now. "And you think I'll be able to forgive myself for this?" he asked. He swore again. "Man, I never meant – I never thought – I just never…"

With obvious effort, Billy opened his eyes, a sweat breaking out across his forehead now, hot blood still welling up beneath Rick's fingers. "I know, mate," Billy said, the words strained and hard to hear now. "I know."

From the hallway, there were voices closer now – indistinct chatter in Spanish lost in a barrage of gunfire.

Rick glanced up and Billy cried out again, this time his body going limp, face slack as unconsciousness claimed him. The smoke was getting hard to breathe in now – they were running out of time.

And options.

Rick looked up to Simms. "You have to help me with him."

Carson looked back at him, expression blank again.

Rick didn't waver. "We need to get him and Salazar out of here."

Carson stiffened, the horror still written all over his shellshocked features.

"Carson!" Rick snapped, hoping to jar the other man. "We _need _to move. With this much smoke, we may be running out of time."

Carson stared at him for a moment, indecision in his expression. There was fear and horror, lost and tragic. He hadn't meant for any of this. He hadn't meant to shoot Billy any more than he'd meant to leave him behind three years ago.

Choices.

It all came down to choices.

Simms could redeem himself. He could help Rick. Finish the mission, save Billy's life.

But Simms shook his head. "I…I can't."

Rick's stomach hardened and something like rage welled up. He used one hand to reach up, grabbing the lapel of Simms' coat and shaking him, Billy's blood smearing. "You _have _to," he said. "You_ owe _him this."

But Simms shook his head again, breath catching. He took another erratic breath, face ghostly white in the haze. "I shot him," he said, quietly now. "I_shot _him."

"Yeah," Rick snapped. "You did. So now let's do something about it—"

Simms' eyes were hollow, expression almost vacant in shock. He hitched with a sob, and he brought his free had up, running it through his hair and his face crumpled. "I _shot _him," he said. "If he dies—"

"He doesn't have to die!" Rick said, because he had to believe it. He had to believe Billy could be saved. His fingers tightened, looking up, almost pleading now. "_Please._"

Simms looked at him, eyes wet. Apologetic. Broken.

Decided.

He shook his head, pulling away. Rick's fingers went lax, and Rick could see his bloody handprint on Carson's shirtfront.

Carson looked at Billy, taking another step back.

"Carson," Rick said, louder now, feeling desperation start to creep in.

Simms took another step, body tensely strung, his entire being precariously lilting.

Decided.  
_  
You always choose yourself. Always.  
_  
Carson Simms had made this choice three years ago.

Three years later, everything had changed.

And nothing.

"They'll string me up alive," Simms said, voice haunted and eyes bleak. "I won't even make it to the States—"

"Simms…" Rick felt like there was something more he should say. Something more he could do. But there was nothing. He was out of words; he was out of pleas. He was out of everything.

Because it was too late.

Simms took one more look at Billy before he turned away and ran, leaving Rick pressing a hand against Billy's stomach while the house burned and the enemy closed in.

And Carson Simms didn't look back.

-o-

It was a long moment while Rick could only stare. Simms was gone and the fire was picking up. It was hard to see in the haze now, and the sound of gunfire was closer. He glanced over to Salazar, who was still unconscious, before he looked down at Billy.

The Scottish operative was lax under Rick's pressure, his face pale under the scruffy beard. Without Simms, Rick was the one who was responsible now. For the mission.

For Billy.

Wetting his lips, Rick looked over at Salazar again. Bringing Salazar back with them was one of the critical components of Michael's plan to avoid any prosecution. Getting him killed or leaving him behind to potentially be rescued by his own would be a disaster in terms of their own freedom and the long term success of bringing down the counterfeiting operation. They _needed _Salazar.

He looked at Billy again. Over the growing cacophony, Rick could hear if he was breathing, but either way, Rick knew he was running out of time. The gunshot was high in the abdomen, which could be suggestive of a whole range of injuries. The stomach, the liver, the kidneys. The intestines. Not to mention all the veins and arteries in the region.

Billy had waited three years for rescue; he didn't have more than three hours now.

And Rick realized he had a choice. Just like Carson Simms, it came down to a simple decision. If he pulled out Salazar first, he could guarantee his own safe passage back to the States. He could have a long and productive career. He could make a real difference

If he chose Billy, there was a good chance he'd be arrested, tried and convicted. His career would be in shambles, and he'd likely spend the foreseeable future in a jail cell. Everything he'd worked for would be for nothing.

But then he thought about a line in Billy's poetry.  
_  
There's worse fates than to be  
A star engraved upon a wall.  
_  
Leaving behind a teammate was one of those fates, worse than death. If Rick had any doubts, he just had to look at what it did to Carson Simms. What it had done to the ODS.

Rick wouldn't wish that on anyone. He wouldn't choose it for himself.

And he wouldn't let Billy die, not after suffering so much. Not after Billy had come back for him.

Billy deserved better.

Rick would give him better.

Mind made up, Rick hoisted Billy up, wincing as fresh blood spilled from the wound. It was hard negotiating the Scot's taller height and he nearly stumbled, his burden tipping, but he worked to find his feet. A fireman's carry would be dangerous with the bullet still in Billy, but Rick didn't have a lot of options. He couldn't carry Billy quickly any other way – and if he took much longer, he'd never get them out alive with the smoke filling the room as fast as it was.

Gritting his teeth, Rick slung the unconscious operative up, feeling the weight on his shoulders a moment before the wetness of blood started to soak into his shoulders. It turned his stomach, but he didn't let it bother him – couldn't.

He sucked in, and hacked out with a cough. Grimacing, he put one foot in front of the other, steadying Billy with one hand on the man's wrist, the other wrapped around his thigh.

It took a few paces to get up some speed, but when he reached the doorway, he was moving fast enough. From there, it wouldn't be far. He could still see the layout in his mind, the long upstairs hallway and the grand staircase, which led straight to the front door. He just had to make it there.

Stepping out, the smoke was thicker, stinging his eyes. He held his breath as best he could, determined to keep moving, to finish what mattered.

But the sight of a gun pointed straight at his chest stopped him in his tracks.

-o-

Rick froze.

As this was the second time today he'd been held at gunpoint, he would have thought it might have lost some of its impact. But the sight still made his heart stutter and his mind go blank.

Then, he heard a familiar voice. "If this is your idea of being right back, then I think we need to have a team meeting when we get home."

Michael.

Somehow, that made sense. First Simms, now Dorset. Knowing Rick's luck, Casey would come barging up and tried to put him in a chokehold.

But Michael dropped the gun, stepping closer, face taut with worry as he realized who Rick was carrying. "Is that-?"

"Billy," Rick confirmed. "He's been shot."

It was hard to tell in the sooty hallway, but Rick was pretty sure Michael's face paled. "Is he-?"

"It's bad," Rick said. "We need to get him out of here."

Michael nodded gravely, swallowing with obvious effort. "Did you find Simms?"

This time, it was Rick's turn to pale. He set his face stonily. "He's gone."

Just like that, Michael's face went blank, some emotion wrenching deep inside him. "Gone?"

Rick blinked and realized the implication. "Yeah, gone," he snapped. "He ran off. I told him to stay, but he didn't listen."

"To get more evidence?" Michael asked, glancing down the hall. "We still have time to go after him—"

Rick's frustration mounted and he shook his head. "No, we don't," he said emphatically, hoping Billy's dead weight might prove his point.

"Casey's coming," Michael said. "You can take off with him—"

"No," Rick said, almost seething now. "I don't even know if he's in the house."

Michael's face screwed up in confusion, the tendrils of a protest imminent.

"We can talk about it later," Rick said, because he was tired and trying to explain everything right now, right here would get them all killed. He still didn't know what to make of Simms' betrayal, and he'd been there to witness it. If he told Michael, Rick wasn't sure what would happen, but he knew it might end up getting more people killed. Right now, Rick wanted to save some lives. Starting with Billy. "We need to get Billy out of here. And if you want to salvage the mission, Salazar is back in the room, still out cold."

Michael still looked confused, but he seemed to recognize the fresh determination in Rick's voice. Rick was certain and sure; and for the first time in his entire tenure with the ODS, Michael didn't question his judgment. It was hard to explain, harder still to understand, but the shift was clear.

Suddenly, he wasn't just the new guy. He was_ the _guy. One of them, in all the ways that mattered. He trusted them; they trusted him. All the pieces fit, right and sure and_ good._

Or, it would be good - once they got the hell out.

At that moment, Casey came running up. He was slightly breathless, hair a little disheveled. "The immediate threat is neutralized," he reported. "But the fire is out of control. I suggest we move if we want to have a shot at getting out of here." Then he saw Rick, and the body slung over his shoulder. His face went blank.

Michael took a breath, interjecting himself before the human weapon could formulate another thought. "Billy's been hit, Simms is gone," he said. He nodded inside. "I need you to go collect Salazar and then we're getting the hell out."

Casey lifted his eyebrows. "Without Carson?"

Michael's eyes settled on Rick, who didn't even blink. Michael looked reluctant, but he still nodded. "Without Carson," he said.

If Casey wanted to question that, one look from Rick and then to Billy's unconscious form silenced him. He inclined his head, pursing his lips. "Don't wait up," he muttered, darting past them.

"Okay, Martinez," he said, taking a deep breath and nodding forward. "Follow me, and don't drop him."

Rick adjusted his grip, jaw tight. "Not a chance," he said, following close as Michael lifted his gun and started out again.

-o-

In the hallway, it was hard to see. Rick's lungs had started to hurt, each wheezing breath a trial. He stumbled, nearly tripping over the bodies on the staircase, but staying close to Michael he made his way into the grand foyer.

His shoulders started to ache, and his entire back felt sticky and hot. But he adjusted his grip and kept running, not sparing a look at the flames licking their way through the opulent living room not far away.

Michael didn't hesitate either, crossing the last of the distance and throwing open the front door with force.

At a run, Rick broke the threshold, almost blinded by the light. In the brightness, he found himself disoriented, the fresh oxygen exacerbating the tightness in his lungs. He choked for a moment, his head going light as he wavered on his feet, knees starting to buckle.

He was about to go down and take Billy with him, but as his stance gave way Michael was there, steadying him with one hand and stabilizing Billy with the other.

Still struggling to breathe, Rick tried to get his bearings, and found himself only marginally successful. When Billy's weight was lifted from his shoulders he wanted to object, but he found himself coughing too hard to formulate the words.

He didn't have to, though. Because Michael was there, laying Billy out and grimacing as he gave him a once over. The Scot didn't move, his pallor even more haggard in the sunlight, mouth open as he drew fast, weak breaths. Michael didn't say anything, but removed his outer shirt, ripping it promptly in two and tying a wadded up portion into place over the gunshot in Billy's gut.

When Casey came up beside them, Salazar firmly in tow, Rick was propped up on his elbows, still gasping for air as he watched Michael finish his ministrations. Casey lingered, face devoid of emotion, as he looked down at them all. "So I take it we have a new plan?"

Michael sat back on his heels, sighing, wiping his bloody hands on his pants absently. "Well, a new-new plan, anyway," he said. Then he looked at Rick, curious and critical all at once. "First, we need to find Simms."

Rick shook his head, wincing at the movement. "Simms is _gone,_" he said. "Not hurt; not getting evidence. Gone."

"So we think he's still inside?" Casey asked pointedly.

"No. Maybe. I don't know," Rick told them, swallowing with difficulty.

Casey's expression darkened. "I didn't come all this way to make the same mistake twice," he growled. "You two can take Billy—"

"No," Rick interjected roughly. "Look, I don't even know if I understand it, but he left. When I say he's gone, I mean it. He left me alone with Billy bleeding out, so right now I don't know if we owe him anything. He's _gone,_ and that was his choice, not mine."

And not Billy's.

"We can't just _leave _him," Michael said – or started to. But before the words left his mouth, an explosion shook the house as the fire picked up with a fresh burst of speed, exhaling larger puffs of smoke into the Panama sky.

It wasn't a choice anymore.

Rick pushed to his feet. His vision tunneled for a moment, but he steadied himself by sheer force of will. He looked at Billy, then to Michael. "So," he said, voice gruff and husky. "What was that about a new-new plan?"

-o-

Michael's new-new plan wasn't exactly any better than the last new plan. Or the original plan, for that matter.

Not that Rick could even remember the original plan anymore. Too much had changed, and Rick would be okay with anything that involved finally getting Billy_ out._

"Most of Salazar's men have read the writing on the wall – they've scattered," Michael said.

"No honor among thieves," Casey grunted.

"And we took care of the loyalist back inside the house," Michael continued.

Suddenly, a new burst of gunfire broke out and Rick ducked, throwing himself protectively over Billy instinctively. Michael turned, stepping in front, gun up as he fired off a few shots, forcing their pursuers down behind an abandoned car in the driveway.

"Mostly!" Michael amended.

Gunfire chipped the cement and Rick curled up, drawing closer to Billy. "So that plan?"

Michael grunted, firing a few more times. "Can you carry him?"

Rick squinted up, nodding. "Yeah."

"Good," Michael said. "Then we run."

-o-

It wasn't an in depth plan, but Rick found he kind of liked the simplicity of it for once.

He was less fond of being shot at, but at this point he was getting a bit used to it.

In the past, Rick would need details, would want explanations. But somehow, this time, he just_ knew._ He understood Michael's lead, could follow Casey's frank logic. Michael was at the rear, firing off shots intermittently to keep their assailants at bay. Casey followed, Salazar over his shoulder, because if someone was going to get shot, Salazar was still the most acceptable loss.

And Rick led. Billy was heavy over his shoulder, but it was a weight that Rick gladly carried. For as long as necessary. Until this was over.

Michael hadn't given him specific directions, but Rick still knew where to go. He made a straight line toward the fence until he came across the truck. It was abandoned, driver's door opened and Rick ran to the far side, fumbling to pull open the back door.

Without words, Rick swiftly put Billy inside, spreading him out on the seat even as Casey scrambled in the other side, throwing Salazar roughly to the floor before closing the door as a hail of bullets pinged just outside.

Rick stayed close to Billy, covering him as best he could even as Michael slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"We all good back there?" Michael called back.

Gunfire continued outside, shattering one of the windows.

"Just go!" Rick yelled.

"Preferably before we end up full of holes!" Casey added.

Michael steeled himself visibly, putting the car in gear and pressing down on the gas. Rick just barely had time to brace Billy on the seat as the truck lurched forward and they were off.

Looking at Billy's worn, slack face, Rick knew it couldn't be soon enough.

-o-

Michael had always been the default driver, and he always got the job done. But as he bounced along roughly in the back of the truck, Rick had to admit, the man lacked finesse.

But what he lacked in finesse, he made up for in speed.

And apparent fearlessness.

Michael jerked the wheel but didn't seem to brake, and it was all Rick could do to keep himself upright and Billy still as the truck rocked precariously on the rutted ground. On the ground, Casey was hogtying Salazar, and the criminal grunted, flailing a little as he came to in the chaos.

Despite all this, Billy didn't move, not even when Rick pressed a hand back down on the makeshift bandage, still wincing when fresh blood continued to well up between his fingers.

He stole a glance at Billy's face. Unmoving. Almost gray.

They didn't leave Billy behind this time, but they might lose him all the same. After everything, it seemed wrong. It was wrong. Billy couldn't die. He_couldn't._

The truck turned hard again, and then picked up speed. "You might want to hold onto something!" Michael called from the front, eyes narrowed and arms straight as he bore down on the gas and didn't yield.

Rick stole a glance out and saw the approaching fence. The checkpoint had been choked off, but it was abandoned, but there wasn't time to stop and open it.

They were out of time.

And by the look on Michael's face, he was out of patience.

Rick knew the impact was coming, but when the truck jolted, the fence flying at the windshield and cracking it before tumbling wildly over the top, he was still unprepared. The force rocked him back, and as he flew forward, he couldn't stop himself as his face smashed into the seat. Below him, Salazar yelped, and Rick felt his knee grind into something fleshy.

He couldn't worry about that, though, not with Billy's body rolling up against him, flopping limply. Rick fumbled blindly for a moment, and when his vision cleared, he could see open space outside the window.

On the far end of the backseat, Casey was crouched, braced. His face was twisted with barely controlled rage. From the front, Michael called back. "That last bump was harder than I expected," he said with unreasonable understatement. "Everyone okay?"

"No permanent damage here," Casey said. He looked down at Salazar. "Unfortunately for some."

"I'm okay," Rick added, his voice sounding a little strained. Then he looked at Billy. The Scot had rolled onto his side, long arms dangling limply off the seat. Rick pressed one hand back to the wound, using the other to run along his face, pausing to feel for the pulse point at his throat. He swallowed in relief. "Billy's still alive."

"Good," Michael said, veering the car back toward the road with more skill now but still at full speed. "Make sure he stays that way. Understood?"

The order was superfluous. It was the one Michael had given back when things started to go wrong. The one Rick had taken upon himself. The one that had been growing since he first opened the drop bottom of the desk, since he joined the team and sat in Billy Collins' desk.

It was time for Billy Collins to go home.

Determined, Rick pressed down harder, eyes trained on Billy's face, and refused to believe in failure.

Yet, there was doubt. Niggling, deep in the back of his mind. What if he was too late. What if this cost him everything. What if Carson Simms was right.

At the thought of Simms, Rick's had to grit his teeth, holding back the urge to swear. This wasn't exactly Carson's fault, but it felt like it. He hadn't meant to pull the trigger, but he'd pointed the gun.

And he'd walked away.

He_ ran _away.

Rick didn't know where he'd have gone, if he'd gotten out alive.

As they raced away from Salazar's compound, Rick couldn't help himself from looking back one last time.

The compound was a speck in the distance and when Michael turned onto the road, taking a sharp left onto a main highway, Rick couldn't see it anymore at all.

-o-

On the open road, Michael's hand steadied and Rick found a position to keep the pressure taut, pressing down with unyielding strength. They were free now; they were safe.

Yet, looking down at Billy, it didn't seem so free or safe after all. Because Billy's pallor got worse, his skin clammy and his complexion ghastly as he took shallow breaths, mouth open and panting.

Then, about two miles out, he started trembling. It was a fine movement at first, but after another mile, it was getting pronounced.

Rick wet his lips and tried to contain his fear. He was no doctor, but he knew what shock looked like. Worse, he knew what it meant.

"How are we looking back there?" Michael's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Rick shifted stiffly. "Getting worse," he reported.

"I think Salazar's fine, though," Casey added.

Next to Rick, bound and gagged, Salazar made a yelping protest. Casey cuffed him on the back of the head.

"But if we don't put him in official custody soon, I can't guarantee that it stays that way," Casey added, even as Salazar gave him an indignant look.

Michael glanced toward Rick. "How bad is worse?" he asked, making eye contract through the mirror. "Do we have time to drop off Salazar first? If we drag him along, we're going to have questions."

Rick's eyes went back to Billy. The Scot hadn't roused once, and even with the pressure, the blood was still flowing. It coated the seat, smeared brightly over the entire back seat.

He forced himself to look away, turning his head to meet Michael's eyes again. Before this mission, he might have doubted speaking up. Not just his own confidence, but that his opinion would have held equal weight. But that doubt was gone now. Or, at any rate, it didn't matter.

He shook his head. "He's losing too much blood," he said. "He's already in shock, and with a gut shot, I think we need to worry about sepsis."

Michael held his gaze a moment longer before nodded resolutely in reply. "Okay," he said. "Once we get to the city, we'll make a straight line for the hospital. Rick, you'll stay with Billy—"

"We're forgetting that Billy technically isn't here at all," Casey said. "No cover; not even a passport."

"I'll get on the phone with Fay and figure it out," Michael said. "Until then, Rick plays the dumb tourist who is too shell shocked to know what's what." He paused until Rick looked back at him. "Can you do that?"

It was something – to be trusted. To be given a part to play, equal and important. No doubts.

No doubts.

Rick nodded. "Yeah," he said.

"Good," Michael replied, eyes back on the road as they raced onward. "Casey and I will take Salazar to a secure location and figure out what to do with him. I'm hoping Fay can come through for us on this one."

"And if she can't?" Casey asked. "We are probably still wanted criminals, if you recall."

"We have the plates," Michael said. "We have Salazar. And most important, we have Billy. I say we call it in and dare Higgins to abandon us now."

Casey inclined an eyebrow. "But Carson—"

Rick flattened his lips into a line. "Made his choice," he said. "Trust me."

"If he needs a rescue, you need to tell us now, Martinez," Michael said evenly.

Rick shook his head. "He was alive."

"So we left a teammate inside a burning building?" he asked. "Again?"

The grief was there, still raw but barely controlled. "I don't think so," Rick said. "He was on his way out when I last saw him."

"On a compound of frantic criminals with guns," Casey reminded him.

"Exactly. Simms made his choice; we made a choice for Billy," Rick insisted. "Besides, if Simms is capable of anything, it's surviving no matter what."

Casey turned his look to Michael. Michael grimaced. Neither disagreed.

Rick shot a glance between him both. "It's a long story," he snapped. "And last I checked, time was one of the things we _didn't _have."

Casey snuffled, settling back gruffly. "Touché."

"Just keep Billy alive," Michael ordered.

Rick's eyes settled back on Billy, whose breathing was faintly wheezing now as he labored for air.

It was just one order, but as Billy's blood slipped between his fingers, Rick knew that it was easier said than done.

-o-

Rick lost sense of time.

It didn't matter, anyway. He measured life in the stuttering beats of Billy's heart, marking existence with each grating breath. The blood was everywhere, but Rick didn't move his arms. They ached and then they went numb, but he didn't dare move. For Billy.

For Billy.

The man who carved patterns into his desk. The man whose large shoes scuffed the bottom. The man who made a drop bottom to hide tokens of a life Rick couldn't even begin to understand.

But he wanted to find out.

He pressed harder, he didn't waver, because he wanted to find out. No matter what it cost.

Michael drove faster; Casey glowered. Rick pressed hard.

Somewhere, Simms was still running.

And Billy fought to stay alive.

Time would only tell if it was a fight any of them would win.

-o-

At the hospital, things happened quickly. Michael pulled them up to the door, and had run around to Rick's door before he even had a chance to realize they'd stopped.

Then there were voices – yelling and movement – and Billy was pulled from the car, Rick's arms numbly falling away as the Scot was negotiated onto a stretcher.

Then, Rick found himself pulled out into the light, the door slamming behind him. He was bombarded by voices, jabbering fast in Spanish, and he blinked, swaying slightly on his feet at the shock of it all.

Michael's hand gripped his arm, and he pressed closer. "Keep it together," he said. "We need you to take care of Billy. Can you do that?"

Rick wasn't sure if he could stand, much less do anything of value. He was lightheaded and numb and tired and—

The medical team was moving, Billy lost among them, his long limbs limp on the gurney as they pushed him inside.

"Rick," Michael hissed.

It was tempting to give in. To cave. To just let go.

But not yet.

Not now.

Without another look back, he moved forward, catching up to the gurney and leaving Michael and Casey to take care of the rest.

-o-

If anyone doubted Rick's meek cover story of a mugging gone very,_ very _wrong on holiday, they didn't have time to give voice to it. Of course, with Billy's vitals tanking and Rick covered in blood, the medical staff probably had other things to think about.

Still, Rick answered their questions sparsely, telling them that Billy's ID had been lost, that Rick didn't know what had happened exactly and he didn't know what to do.

He didn't know.

As he watched them treat Billy, he just wished that it was more of a lie than it actually was.

They made short work of Billy's clothes. The blood had disguised how tired and worn the garments were, and when Billy's wound was exposed Rick could still see the small hole. It looked too small to be so dangerous, but the blood around it told a much different story. It coated his stomach, smearing up his chest and across his forearms. It was stained down his legs, soaking the boxers, which were all that covered the Scot.

Rick's Spanish was almost as good as his English, so picking up the medical jargon wasn't hard. Someone said something about a rapid infuser; someone else noted his oxygen levels were dropping. An IV was started and when the heart monitor went live, the erratic beat was hardly reassuring.

Something bleated plaintively, and someone hung a second IV, this one dark with blood. The machine blared again, and Rick found himself pushed out of the way.

The dialogue picked up, the overlapping voices hard to distinguish as someone probed the wound before pressing down a fresh bandage. Billy started trembling again – more noticeably now – and the heart monitor registered an increased beat and Billy's blood pressure started to drop.

And then someone was hauling him out, telling him about protocol and paperwork and how they needed him to fill out some forms.

Rick shook his head, starting to protest, tripping over his own feet as the nurse started to force him away.

Billy was his responsibility.

But he'd done everything he could for Billy.

As the nurse dragged him to the hallway, Rick caught one last look at the Scot, unmoving on the gurney as the doctors worked, and told himself it was enough.

And if he was starting to lie as much as his teammates, now was no time to start admitting that.

-o-

Rick wasn't sure how long he sat in the hospital, staring blankly at the stack of paperwork he'd been handed. It was in Spanish, which really wasn't a problem, but he was more than content to let the hospital think it was. While they tried to find him a translator, he stared listlessly at the wall, the pen barely clasped in his blood-stained hands.

Looking down, he thought they'd have to get him all new forms anyway; these were now smudged with red.

Billy's blood.

The thought made his stomach clench and he looked away again, eyes darting uncertainly around the room. He felt conspicuous. Which, drenched in blood, he _did _stand out, and was probably why the hospital had put him in a private waiting room. It could have been for his own comfort, but he suspected that his appearance would be unsettling to other people milling about. He thought he should clean up, but he didn't have any clothes. And he didn't know what he was supposed to do. He'd gotten Billy to the hospital, and Michael had said he'd take care of the rest…

And then, there he was.

Michael's sudden appearance was so well timed that for a second, Rick thought he was actually imagining it. It wouldn't have surprised him; he still felt a bit off kilter after everything. But when Michael's eyes locked with his, Rick knew this was real.

Blood stained hands, shaky covers and possible charges back home kind of real.

Michael started over, unflinching, Casey a step behind him. They both looked grim, faces taut with worry, aging them more than Rick had ever seen. Between finding Billy and almost losing Billy, between reuniting the team and losing Simms, Rick couldn't blame them.

Though suddenly, Rick realized their presence wasn't so comforting.

Because they might have taken care of what they could, but there were still questions to ask. Questions that only Rick could answer.

Questions that Rick was still trying to figure out himself.

Still, Rick wasn't going to run. Not now; not ever.

Michael settled in the chair next to him, glancing at the bloodstained paperwork while Casey sat stiffly on Michael's other side. "Any news?"

Rick shook his head. "I think they took him up to surgery, but they've been too busy bothering me about paperwork to tell me anything else."

Michael made a face. "We've got Fay working on paperwork of our own," he said. "We should be able to get a fake passport via the American Embassy soon enough. That should expedite the process."

"So it's taken care of?" Rick asked, daring to hope just a little that something might go right for once. "Billy's got an identity?"

"It was a bit of a hassle to figure out how to get around the fact that he never technically entered the country, but we burned a few favors," Michael replied.

Casey snorted.

Michael shrugged. "Or more than a few," he amended. "The fact that we got Salazar and the plates helped, though."

"It also helped clear up our potential legal troubles," Casey added.

"The Secret Service boys weren't happy, but the fact that we tidied up their case faster and better than they could have means something," he said.

"Though I still object to those yahoos getting all the credit when they effectively sat on their asses and did nothing," Casey said.

"As long as we get home, I think it's a win," Rick said, sinking back in his chair slightly, his adrenaline faltering with the promise of his job and Billy's passage back home taken care of.

Next to him, Michael didn't relax, though. He hesitated a moment, eyes keen as he looked at Rick steadily. "We've taken care of our end," he said. "And the doctors are taking care of Billy. Which means we've still got one issue we need to clear up."

Just like that, the tension built again, and Rick swallowed convulsively. His frayed nerves flared up again, and he ground his teeth together to keep his expression impassive. Because Rick knew what was coming. And it wasn't just that Rick didn't want to talk about what had happened back in Salazar's office; it was that he didn't even know if he could explain it if he tried.

Michael showed no signs of backing down, however. "I went against every instinct I had back there and left an operative behind," he said. "And I need to know why."

Michael's voice was steady, but the emotion was roiling just beneath the surface. It struck Rick again, more clearly now, just what a risk Michael had taken. Leaving without Simms – leaving without _any _of them – wasn't something Michael would take lightly. On this mission, more than the rest. And yet, Michael had. Michael had listened to Rick and trusted Rick, and no matter how hard it was, Rick owed him an explanation.

"You didn't leave him," he said finally, trying to keep his voice even despite the emotion threatening to choke him. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed around it, forcing out the words with such control that it hurt. "He left _us _behind."

To that, Michael had no reaction. Next to him, Casey's dour expression darkened even further. "That's a nice sound byte," Michael said, head inclined, "but I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific this time."

Rick sighed, and it came back to him. He could still see Simms, the gun to Salazar's head. The desperate, panicked, rage that solidified when the gun turned on Rick. "When I went after Simms, I found him in Salazar's office with a gun to his head."

Michael didn't seem surprised. "Well, the man did kidnap one of our teammates and hold him hostage for three years," he said.

"If you had found me alone with Salazar, chances are that you wouldn't have found him alive," Casey said.

"That's not true, and you know it," Rick said.

"Well, you wouldn't have found him _conscious,_" Casey allowed tersely.

"Exactly," Rick said. "You wouldn't have killed him."

"I'm still not seeing how this leads to us running out with Simms not with us," Michael said.

Rick looked at his hands, bloodstained and worn. He gestured helplessly. "I tried to talk him out of it, thought like you that he'd just gotten carried away," he explained. Then he remembered Salazar's knowing tone,_ Mr. Simms. _Rick looked up, meeting Michael's gaze again unrepentantly. "Simms knew Salazar."

"We all know Salazar," Michael said. "We studied his file for months prepping for North Africa and we studied it for a year afterward looking for any clue where he might have gone."

"No," Rick said, shaking his head, adamant now. The shock of the situation was giving way to exhaustion, and with exhaustion, he was finding his patience thin. "He_ knew _him. And Salazar knew Simms. I don't know what your mission was three years ago, but it didn't end the way you think it did."

Michael's posture went stiff, but he belied no other sign of concern. "You're still lobbing vague statements and not backing them up."

Rick blew out a breath, willing himself to retain control. It wasn't that he couldn't see Michael's point of view – because he_ did _— but how was he about to explain what happened? That Simms had been compromised? Not just on this mission, but for _three years._

Michael prided himself on knowing everything, and he'd missed this. But it made sense. Looking back now, everything made sense.

And yet, nothing made sense at all. "Simms was the last one to see Billy, right?"

Michael nodded. "They were together in the compound," he said. "Their job was to find Salazar."

"And Simms came back alone?" Rick prompted.

"Yeah," Michael said, face going a little whiter. "He said he couldn't get to Billy with the debris and when I turned to go back, the entire place went up."

That might have been hard to envision, once. Now, it was too damn easy.

"Salazar blackmailed Simms," Rick blurted finally, not knowing any other way to say it. "Forced him to turn over the intel from the mission by threatening to kill him and expose all of you. Simms gave him the intel, and when Billy came after Simms, Salazar took him, too. He told Simms he'd kill them both if he stayed." Rick shrugged, the futility of it all almost overwhelming him. "So Simms walked away."

It wasn't a long explanation, but it was long enough to leave Rick feeling winded. His chest ached and his stomach felt queasy, the blood on his fingers making his skin feel tight. He'd always believed the truth mattered, that the truth would make things _right,_ but these truths didn't help anything.

These truths were difficult and wrong, painful and unrelenting.

Simms had chosen himself.

Over his team. Over Billy. Over his job. Over everything.

Casey had gone utterly still, eyes unblinking as he stared at Rick. Michael breathed in steady inhalations, studying Rick with unyielding scrutiny. They were looking for a sign – that he was lying, that he was mistaken, that maybe the smoke had gone to his head and muddled everything up. They were looking for a way for him to be wrong.

"That's quite a story," Michael said.

"And one hell of an accusation," Casey rejoined.

Rick couldn't back down now. "I know," he said. "I didn't want to believe it either, but he said it himself. And Billy – I think he suspected all along. And even then, I thought maybe I misunderstood but then he turned the gun on me."

Michael cocked his head. "He what?"

"He turned the gun on me," Rick repeated, struggling to keep his momentum when everything inside of him wanted to stop. To just make it not be this way anymore. "I had my gun up, to make him stop. I thought he'd see sense, but instead he threatened to kill me first."

Michael Dorset had always been in cold command of the facts as long as Rick had known him. He was cynical and jaded and paranoid as hell, but he'd never been one to shy away from the truth.

But at the admission of Simms' choice to turn the gun on Rick, he was plainly conflicted, and Rick recognized the telltale signs of denial fighting against the facts as Rick explained.

Rick wanted to stop. He wished he could. But after three years, Michael and Casey deserved the truth.

Billy deserved the truth.

Even Rick deserved it. "Salazar had him backed into a corner, and Simms decided to fight his way out."

"That doesn't mean we should cut him out," Michael said. "He's still our teammate—"

Rick threw up his hands. He didn't blame Michael or Casey, but he had no other answers to give them. He had no way of sugarcoating this. He only had the raw and horrible truth, no matter how much any of them wanted to deny it. "You think I wanted it to go down like this?" he exploded. "I knew I couldn't pull the trigger, no matter what. And then Billy showed up, and he wouldn't even listen to _Billy._ Billy forgave him for everything and Simms was still too focused on saving his own skin to listen."

"Carson Simms isn't a traitor," Michael retorted without hesitation. The plaintive statement carried as much conviction as Michael could muster.

It wasn't enough.

Rick stared him back down. "No, but he is a compromised operative," he said, and there was a difference. Rick might not have thought so once, but he wasn't the naïve rookie anymore. He knew more than he wanted to. "That's why he was going to kill Salazar. That's why he turned the gun on me. That's why he ran off after shooting Billy—"

The minute he said it, Rick knew it'd come out wrong. Not that it wasn't true, but it was too plain, too forceful. The accusation of guilt was hard enough; that Simms was the one who shot Billy…

Rick didn't want to believe it. Wouldn't have believed it, but he'd been there. He'd heard the shot; he's seen Carson's guilt; he'd held Billy while he bled.

Michael froze. Casey turned white, fingers clenched into fists so hard that it looked like his skin on his knuckles might split from the force alone.

For a moment, the words hung there, Rick's mouth still open, half horrified that he'd said it, but too terrified to take it back.

"It was an accident," Rick amended, throwing it on half-heartedly. In everything, that much was true. Simms wouldn't have shot Billy, otherwise. Rick found himself questioning a lot of truth, but he didn't question that. It was Simms' fault, without a doubt, but it had still been an accident. "We heard the noise in the hall, and Simms slipped—"

Rick could still hear the bang. Could still remember seeing Billy lying on the floor, blood covering his dirty shirt.

"—It was an accident," he said again, too aware of how feeble it sounded.

"How can you be sure?" Michael demanded.

Rick wet his lips. "My gun was down. Billy didn't have his pulled. Salazar was unconscious."

Another long moment passed where no one seemed to breathe. Rick's eyes darted uncertainly between Michael and Casey, but neither of them would look at him now. There were no more questions; there were no more clarifications.

Just slow, certain acceptance.

Just critical, unrelenting understanding.

"I think it broke Simms," Rick said, because he could still see the visceral pain that left Simms doubled over. "He didn't mean—"

"He shot Billy," Casey clarified, voice sharp like glass.

"And then he_ left _while Billy was_ bleeding,_" Michael said, traces of anger rising to the top now.

Rick felt his confidence waver for some reason, not because it wasn't true but because he wasn't sure how they would react. What this would do to Michael and Casey. What this would mean for the team. If any of them could recover from this.

But denying it wasn't possible, and it wouldn't help. Not in the long run. It was plain what Simms' denial had done to the team already; it was time to rectify that.

No matter how much it hurt.

"It was a no-win situation," Rick said, trying to shrug, trying to make sense of it. For all his anger and indignation regarding Simms' choice, he suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for the man. Three years he carried a secret. Three years knowing he'd made a choice to live while someone else died. It had destroyed him more than the rest, hollowed him out and left him desperate and meager.

Simms had saved his life and condemned it all at once. It was hard not to feel sorry for him. Simms had always been the one to teach him about shades of gray. Now, more than ever.

Michael pressed his lips together for a moment. Then, he laughed. "That's not true," he said. "Maybe we couldn't win everything, but Simms made sure he came out on top."

"He made a mistake," Rick said. "He never meant—"

Michael shook his head. "Go," he said, voice so low it was hardly audible.

Rick blinked, wondering if he'd misheard.

Michael looked up, eyes flashing as they met Rick's. "_Go,_" he said again, the order gruff and harsh, unlike Rick had ever heard from the man before.

Rick was at a loss. He'd been prepared for anger, for denial, for violence, for tears. "But—"

"If you don't want us to forcibly remove you from the room and place you unconscious in a hospital bed, _go,_" Casey said.

Rick blinked again.

"Check on Billy," Michael said, cold and certain now.

"But what are you going to do?" he asked. "About Simms?"

"That's our business," Michael said.

"But I'm part of this team—" Rick began to protest.

"You are," Michael agreed. "But Simms isn't anymore. If this was about Panama, it'd be different. But this is about North Africa, and when I say you need to leave that to us, I mean you need to leave it to us."

Part of Rick knew it was a mistake. The news Michael and Casey had just been told – it was too much to let them process alone. It was too much to trust them to process alone. Rick wasn't sure what they would do – what they even_ could _do – but he had a sneaking suspicion he might not want to find out.

Still, they were right, somehow. Simms hadn't betrayed Rick; not really. He'd betrayed Michael and Casey. He'd betrayed Billy.

His team had given him their trust. It was Rick's turn to return the favor.

Because these were good men. The best men he'd ever known. He trusted them.

Nodding, he got to his feet. "Okay," he said. Then he hesitated. "The paperwork…"

"Check with the desk," Michael said. "Fay was having it transferred."

Rick nodded, but lingered again. "You're not leaving, are you?"

Michael looked at Rick, Casey's gaze following along. "We know you need us, kid," he said. "And Billy needs all of us. We won't be far."

Rick nodded again. "Okay," he said, feeling awkward, like the puzzle piece out of place again, trying to fit in but the grooves never matching up. "So, uh. I guess I'll see you."

Neither of his teammates made any reply. They didn't watch as Rick left. Outside, Rick let the door shut, pausing. He looked back through the glass.

Casey was sitting, straight and stiff. His lips were moving, even if his face remained expressionless. In reply, Michael took a ragged breath, head dropping down into his hands.

With all the strength he could muster, Rick walked away.

-o-

At the desk, Rick found a nurse. He tried to show her his unfilled forms, but she seemed to know something he didn't. "No, no," she said in accented English. "Paperwork has been faxed over from the Embassy."

"So I'm good?"

She took the bloodstained forms and put them aside. "Good, good," she said. "And you are, ah, one of the medical contacts?"

Rick blinked, and realized that Fay must have pulled more strings than he'd expected. Not only had she taken care of Billy's identity, but she'd linked them all together. Though considering that Billy was an operative that the CIA had lost for three years, he supposed they owed him that.

Whatever favors Fay had pulled, the entire attitude of the staff shifted. Suddenly Rick wasn't some wayward tourist struggling to speak English; he was somehow a VIP that the staff knew by name. They escorted him upstairs to a surgical waiting room where he was immediately greeted by a nurse.

She offered him platitudes and sparing answers, telling him that Billy was in surgery to fix the damage to his stomach and stop the bleeding, before letting him settle down to wait.

Rick was used to waiting. He'd waited for years to become a CIA agent. He'd waited for his fiancée to finally marry him. He'd waited to become part of the ODS. He'd waited to find the mystery man who'd shared his desk.

He'd achieved some of that, others not so much. But the things that mattered came through.

Sitting there, alone, Rick could only hope that would prove to be the case again.

-o-

After an hour, an orderly found him, and offered him some clean clothes and something to eat. Rick was too tired to disagree. In the bathroom, he threw his soiled clothes into the bag that had been provided, scrunching his nose as the blood started flaking to the floor.

Washing his hands was a laborious process, and no matter how he scrubbed, he couldn't quite whittle away the remnants of red stuck deep beneath his fingernails and dried into his cuticles. He used up an entire roll of paper towels, and it still took him most of the second roll before he felt mostly clean. He felt unsettled leaving the bloody towels in the trashcan like that, but he didn't know what else to do.

Which seemed to be a common theme for this mission.

Weary, he trudged back to the waiting area he'd been left in, nibbling on an apple before half heartedly eating a cookie. After another hour, he found himself almost dozing, head lolled back against the wall despite his better efforts.

He couldn't let go entirely, though, no matter how tired he was. Because Michael and Casey were coping – probably poorly – and Billy was in surgery – possibly dying – and Carson was on the run – maybe never to be seen again.

If Rick let go, he might never get it back. After everything, that wasn't something he was willing to risk.

At this point, he didn't have another choice.

-o-

When the doctor finally came, Rick realized he'd been asleep. Coming to, he found himself badly disoriented, not sure what country he was in or what name he was going by.

The confusion passed quickly, though, when she started talking in staccato English that was surprisingly clear.

"First let me apologize for any inconvenience when you first came in," she said. "We were not aware of your special affiliations with the Embassy. You have our apologies for the extra hassles you encountered upon your arrival with your friend."

Rick got to his feet, teetering for a moment while his head finished clearing. He worked to focus his eyes, nodding intently. "That's perfectly alright," he said. "I was pretty out of it."

"Understandably, given the shock," she said with a polite nod.

"So how is he?" Rick prompted, unwilling to endure further small talk.

Her carefully crafted mask faltered for a moment, but she smiled. "He made it through surgery and is currently being observed in recovery while we wait for him to be stable enough to move to the ICU."

That wasn't so bad, Rick thought. After all the waiting and the worry, Billy being alive didn't sound bad at all.

Except that there was more to it than that. He braced himself for the inevitable but.

She gathered a breath, forcing her smile even more than before. "The bullet fortunately missed the majority of the small intestines, but it still nicked his liver and damaged several of the hepatic veins and arteries, resulting in extreme blood loss. We have transfused him with several liters to help combat his hypovolemia, but his condition is still very guarded. The risk of infection remains high, despite preventative antibiotics."

The explanation was clear and to the point, but Rick found himself struggling to keep up. Not because he didn't understand, but because he was still trying to figure out just what it meant. Knowing the damage to the internal organs was one thing, but Rick still needed to know one simple truth. "Will he be okay?"

Her smile fell and she pressed her lips together, looking at him seriously. "If we can fend off the worst of the infection and continue to help his vitals rebound, then yes, he may be okay. However, that much blood loss takes time to recover from, and with his weakened system, it may be more than he can handle. If he starts bleeding again, or if an infection takes root, it could compromise his chances at recovery."

Rick felt the lump reform in his throat, and he tried to swallow it, feeling almost like he was choking.

This time, her smile was sympathetic. "We'll know more in a few hours," she said as reassuringly as possible. "And you will be allowed to sit with him while he recovers."

Rick nodded numbly.

She gave a small shrug. "I know it's hard," she said. "But right now, it's just a waiting game."

After everything, Rick thought that should be something he was used to, but as he followed the doctor back to Billy, he knew he wasn't used to it at all.

-o-

When he was finally left alone with Billy, Rick's first instinct was to be relieved. Thanks to Fay and the crew back at Langley, it seemed his credentials and Billy's identity were infallible now, which certainly reduced his stress level.

But standing there, looking at Billy, it was anything but a relief.

Billy was still alive, that was true, but the slack figure was hardly recognizable. The thought suddenly struck him as odd: after all, Rick had only know Billy Collins for a day. The too-thin features could have been any stranger to Rick, and the thick beard might have been his everyday appearance as far as Rick knew. Save from one photo in a file, Rick had never seen the man before.

But that wasn't what was so hard to recognize. It was the stillness, the utter lack of expression. Ever since Rick had met Billy Collins, he hadn't stopped. He'd been effusive and upbeat, always thinking and plotting. There had been a hollow darkness there – something Rick had only glanced briefly – but despite what he'd been through, Billy showed more life and vitality than the rest of the ODS combined.

Even though they'd just met, Rick had appreciated that. Hell, he'd practically come alive with it. Billy's enthusiasm had made him thrive; it had dramatically improved the team dynamic, revitalizing it from the inside out.

Yet, there he was. Hooked up to machine, eyes closed; unconscious and injured. A shadow of the operative Rick had met.

More than that, a ghost of the person he'd come to know through his poetry and his desk. There had been such hope, such dogged optimism; Billy Collins had never been idle. He was always moving, scratching things into his desk, scribbling poetry in his free time. _That _was Billy Collins.

This…

This wasn't right.

After three years they'd found Billy, only he had rescued Rick as much as Rick had rescued him. He deserved better.

And Rick couldn't do anything.

But he had to.

Michael and Casey were gone; Carson was never coming back. This was Rick's responsibility now.

This was Rick's only mission.

Standing there, lingering close, it seemed like the most important one yet.

-o-

Rick waited.

The truth was, he wasn't sure what he was waiting for. The nurse had explained that Billy was deeply sedated; even if his vital did rebound enough, the medication wouldn't let him come close to rousing.

But still, Rick waited.

Because that was what he'd been ordered to do.

As the time passed, though, he thought it was more than that. This wasn't just a responsibility. Billy wasn't a burden.

Studying Billy, he wasn't sure _what _the Scotsman was to him.

He was more than his predecessor. He was more than a legend. He was more than a victim, a good operative, one of the CIA's best.

He was…

He was the ODS. The soul of it, the very essence of it. He made everything make sense.

He was the kind of man who took a bullet for a stranger. A hero.

Someone Rick wanted to know. Maybe someone he'd known all along, but someone he wanted to know better. A teammate. Maybe a friend.

Maybe.

Billy breathed; his heart beat. Rick waited; for as long as it took.

-o-

Whatever Fay had arranged, Rick knew he'd owe her more than a little when they got back. Not only were the doctors and nurses suddenly deferential and patient, but they hardly even asked him to leave. Visiting hours apparently didn't exist for him, and he found himself dozing in Billy's small room.

Billy didn't change – he seemed no better and no worse – and he hovered in a perpetual state of what seemed like near-death to Rick. The doctors were polite but not particularly encouraging, and the sympathetic looks from the nurses were beginning to set Rick's nerves on end.

Sleeping was probably inevitable, but when he roused the next morning at the nurse's shift change, he still felt as though he'd let someone down.

But Billy didn't flicker on the hospital bed; medicated and unconscious.

Billy's obliviousness only made him feel worse.

"Pardon me, sir," the nurse said, offering him up that forcefully courteous smile all the nurses seemed to have perfected. "This message was left for you."

Bleary-eyed, Rick took it and he was still blinking his way back to full awareness as the nurse started about the room, making notes and taking vitals, putting her name on the white board before updating other pertinent information that Rick had tried to look at but failed to comprehend.

When she finally left, he squinted to make out the handwriting – clearly someone who wasn't a native English speaker – and put together the message.  
_  
At the hotel – catch us before noon or we'll see you in a week._

–M  
  
Sparse as it was, Rick had no uncertainty as to who it was from. Michael often operated on a need-to-know basis; he preferred to dispense details sparingly, and Rick was often on the receiving end of such scarcity. While Rick could appreciate such brevity in an unsecured method of communication, he had to admit, the vagueness of it left him unsettled.

Not that it was actually vague. Michael and Casey had clearly gone back to the hotel – the same one they'd started in, since Michael hadn't specified otherwise. And obviously, Michael and Casey were getting ready to leave.

Squinting, Rick looked up at the clock. It was already 9 AM.

Michael and Casey were getting ready to leave soon.

Either they expected Rick to drop everything and do their bidding, or they hoped Rick wouldn't have time to show up at all.

Which, of course, meant that Rick probably needed to show up more than ever.

Because where could Michael and Casey be going? At a time like this? They had Salazar; they had dismantled his operation. They had scored big in every element of the mission. There were no loose ends to tie up – because they'd left the entire place burning.

More than all that, they'd found Billy, which was really what this had been about from the beginning. Hell, that was what it had been about for the last three years even if Rick hadn't known it and none of them had bothered to acknowledge it. Billy was the missing link of the ODS, and he was here. Alive, if not well, and he needed them now more than ever.

And Michael and Casey were in a hotel room, ready to leave.

There was only one possible reason. One explanation that made any sense.

Because if one wayward member of the ODS was in a hospital bed, another was now at large. Michael and Casey had risked everything to bring one home; Rick had to only think they'd do the same for the other.

Where Billy was a hero, innocent and lauded, Rick couldn't imagine what fate Carson would await. Not just for North Africa, not just for leaving Billy behind once; but for doing it again.

Rick's stomach turned a little, and he looked up blankly for a moment before his eyes settled on Billy. Rick had seen one teammate walk away. Maybe Casey and Michael had better reasons, maybe they intended on coming back but if Billy Collins was a textbook case of the unexpected.

It wouldn't be worth it.

Justice wasn't worth it.

Billy Collins was.

Getting up, Rick moved close, squeezing the recumbent Scotsman on the arm. "I know this whole walking away thing is getting a bit overdone, but when I tell you that I'll be back, I mean it," he said. He lingered, trying to smile. "After all, we need to talk about the condition of your desk. So you can count on it."

He squeezed once more, forcing himself to swallow.

Then he walked away.

Not for the first time. But he hoped for the last.

-o-

Getting to the motel was harder than Rick had anticipated. He walked out of the hospital with his head high and the best of intentions.

Then he realized he didn't have a car.

Then he realized he didn't have more than 10 dollars.

Then he realized the motel was on the other side of town.

Discouraged and embarrassed, he found his way back to the main desk. He had only managed to start spinning his tail when the receptionist had a cab on the phone and she was telling him not to worry about payment.

Rick wasn't about to let his pride stand in the way of what he needed, especially when it involved keeping his team together.

Or rather, keeping what was left of his team together.

He checked his watch nervously throughout the car ride, trying not to think of the look on Carson's face when he walked away, the stillness of Billy's features in the hospital room. This could still be salvaged. Rick had to believe that.

When the driver pulled up outside the hotel, Rick was somewhat less certain. Still, he thanked the man, who told him to have a wonderful day. Rick loitered awkwardly for a moment, waiting for the man to pull away before he headed in.

It was a nice hotel with a tropical feel. It clearly catered to Americans, and Rick nodded congenially at the reception staff as he slinked through the front doors and across the lobby. Their room had been on the third floor, large enough to sleep all of them with a comfortable breeze off its included balcony. With the four of them it had been a tight fit, but none of them had been particularly concerned about sleeping on this mission.

Even with everything that had happened, that much hadn't changed. The sleep Rick had gotten sitting next to Billy's hospital bed hadn't done him much good, and as he pulled out his hotel key card, he felt more sluggish and tired than he remembered.

Or maybe he just really wasn't looking forward to whatever Michael and Casey had planned.

At any rate, Rick wasn't one to quit, especially not now. The lock flashed green and Rick pushed it open, putting his card back in his pocket as he shuffled inside.

And then someone grabbed his arm, wrenching it behind his back before turning him violently and slamming him against the wall, bracing him there by pushing roughly on his opposite shoulder.

Wide-eyed, Rick yelped, frantically trying to remember some type of self-defense before he was ruthlessly murdered.

"Casey!" Michael's voice came. "Stand down!"

The person behind him gave a heavy breath, his grip still tight. "You should know better than to walk into a room unprepared," Casey seethed into his ear.

Rick looked over his shoulder, trying not to whimper as pain lanced through his arm at the precarious position. "Noted," he said.

Casey seemed to scowl, but he eased his grip, letting Rick go.

Rick tried to calm his racing heart, straightening his clothes in a vain attempt to look presentable. The clothing he'd been given yesterday had been clean, but they were a little too big and more casual than he normally preferred on a mission. "Though you did tell me to come," Rick said, just a touch petulant.

Casey snorted, going back over to the bed, packing his things.

Michael shrugged coolly, putting a file folder down on the table. "We weren't sure you'd come," he said.

Rick resisted the urge to laugh, because he could read between the lines. More like they were hoping he wouldn't show up in time.

Then, Rick really looked around. The hotel room was in a state of disarray. The beds were rumpled but not unmade, and there were papers everywhere with an open laptop next to the file Michael had put down. Someone had tacked up a map, and there was an array of pushpins punched through, connecting strings to various points around the globe.

It might have been amusing, but Rick knew better. To some, it might have looked like a child's version of spycraft, but the frenetic, unkempt nature of it was hardly child's play. Michael had always been a paranoid bastard with a mind that wouldn't quit, but usually his plotting was controlled and orderly.

This…was anything but.

This was personal.

Rick swallowed. "You're going after Simms."

Casey didn't look up from his work. Michael pursed his lips, but notably didn't deny it.

Rick kept his temper. "Do you think you found him?"

At that, Michael took a breath. He hesitated, as if he might withhold this information, but then he nodded. "We think so," he said.

"Or, at the very least, we have a good idea of where he might have gone," Casey added shortly.

"We know Simms," Michael explained. "We know his habits and his connections."

Casey sighed, zipping his bag and looking at Rick plainly. "What he means is that the only advantage to working with a traitor for all these years is that we know how to betray him right back," he said. "So I guess there is a bright side to all this."

"We think we have a solid lead," Michael continued, more diplomatically. "But if we don't go after him now, his trail's going to dry up quickly. He's good at making connections, so it won't be long until he gets out of the predictable hiding places and finds something a bit more permanent."

Michael was right about that; Carson Simms was good at surviving. To the man's credit, he'd told Rick that in the beginning. Rick had just never thought…

He'd never thought a lot of things.

But that wasn't the point.

"So that's it, then?" Rick prompted. "You're just going after him?"

"He shot Billy," Casey interjected roughly. "Not to mention the fact that he left him to die. Twice. I know I'm not the best when it comes to being a good person, but even I can see some things as moral absolutes."

Rick's brow furrowed. "You just found out about this a day ago," he protested. "And you've already tried and convicted him!"

"Are you saying you lied?" Michael asked.

Rick shrank back. "No—"

"We also did some looking into North Africa," Michael said. "We had never considered an inside job before, but once we did everything made sense."

"Not to mention this explains his behavior over the years," Casey said crossly.

"I didn't want to believe it, but the evidence is there," Michael said, holding out the file. "Once we looked for it…"

Reluctant, Rick took the file. He flipped it open, surprised to see that it was a detailed analysis of the North Africa mission. He shook his head. "That still doesn't explain why."

"Reasons are sentimental," Casey said sharply.

"And it doesn't make it less wrong," Michael added. "He left Billy to die. He was ready to kill you to cover this up."

Rick knew that. He'd been there. But…

He shook his head again. "He deserves to be held accountable, but it has to be fair," Rick said. "And you two are running off for vigilante justice."

Michael inclined his head. "I thought you were onboard with the unsanctioned missions."

"For the greater good," Rick said. He tossed the file on the bed. "This isn't the greater good. This is revenge."

"And I'm not seeing the problem," Casey said.

"We deal with our own, Martinez," Michael said. "Carson made a choice, and now he needs to live with it."

Rick could still see the brokenness, the desperation on Simms' face. He was living with it, and no matter how far he ran or how close to ground he went, he'd never escape it. He hadn't escaped North Africa; he'd never escape Panama.

But that wasn't the point, because that wasn't the priority. Simms had made his choice for himself at Billy's expense. And now Michael and Casey wanted to do the same thing.

And that wasn't okay.

Face set, Rick lifted his chin in determination. "So you're making a choice, too," he said. "You're choosing a personal vendetta over being there for Billy."

Casey's brow darkened and Michael's eyes narrowed. "It's not the same thing and you know it," Michael said, voice low, a little dangerous.

Rick refused to be cowed. He held his head high, maintained eye contact. "Billy's in the hospital right now," he reminded them. "Recovering from a gunshot wound after being presumed dead and held hostage for three years."

"That's why you're there," Michael said.

"And why you should go back," Casey added.

Rick shook his head, more adamant now. "We're a team," he said. "We're there for each other. Billy barely knows me; it's you he's going to look for. It's you he needs. He already had one teammate leave him, he doesn't need two more to walk away, no matter what the reasons."

"It's a week, Martinez," Michael said, and Rick detected a hint of pleading.

But Rick wouldn't budge. "Yeah, and it was just three years," he said. "Isn't it what you just said? The reasons don't matter? The action does? All Billy's going to know when he wakes up is that you're not there. Just like you weren't there for three years."

It was a low blow, and Rick knew it. Emotional blackmail at its finest. But someone needed to hit the nail right on the head and drive the point home. Simms didn't deserve a free pass, but this wasn't about Simms anymore. They could track him down later; they could stalk him and arrest him and turn him into Higgins for a right and proper investigation. If that resulted in charges then Rick wouldn't object.

But it wasn't his decision. It wasn't his primary concern.

This was about the team. About Michael and Casey and Rick and…Billy. The ODS. Now that they were finally together, Rick realized how much he never wanted to think of them breaking up again. It wasn't right, to disrupt the big picture right when things made sense. Not for revenge.

And definitely not for Carson Simms. Traitor, confused man, whatever he was. He wasn't worth it.

Billy was.

This team was.

"And if something happened to him now?" Rick pushed. "I mean, if you walked away now and something happened? You haven't even asked how he is."

Casey's face was painfully blank, but Michael was stiff. "We've been kind of busy," Michael said.

"Yeah, so have I," Rick said. "Sitting by Billy's bedside, watching a machine breathe for him."

Casey didn't flinch, but Michael's frame shook just slightly, his expression wavering.

Rick didn't back down. "And you know who's doing the most work right now?" he prodded. "Billy. Trying to_ live._ So you can spare me your stories about revenge or justice or whatever. We look after our own. So_ do it._"

Michael's expression flickered again, and he finally sighed. "Damn it," he muttered.

"Should I tell you about how many IVs he has?" Rick said.

Michael shook his head. "Your point is made, kid."

Casey glowered. "We're still going after him," he said.

"Fine," Rick agreed. "When Billy is awake, we can talk about that. Together."

"We _will _talk about that," Casey said pointedly.

"Among other things," Michael said.

Casey held up one finger. "And I make no promises of restraint when we do find Simms," he said. "My fuse can burn long and it can burn hard. Asking me to simmer is never a good idea."

Rick nodded. "Noted."

Michael sighed again, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. Then he eyed Rick. "That wasn't really fair, you know."

"It's a testament to how tired I am that an emotional appeal would have any weight," Casey muttered.

At that, Rick finally smiled. "That's why we're a team," he said. "We need each other."

Casey shook his head crossly, moving toward the door without looking at Rick in total exasperation.

Michael gave him a critical look, frowning a bit.

Rick made a face. "Too much?"

"Yeah, just a bit," he said. Then he cocked his head thoughtfully. "I think Billy's rubbing off on you already."

Michael moved past him to the door, and Rick stood for a minute to smile. Because he certainly hoped so.

Following his teammates, he hoped a lot of things.

And for the first time in his CIA tenure, he believed maybe – just maybe – it would be enough.

-o-

This time, they came back together.

The nurses gave them a strange look, one of them positively scowling, but no one stopped them as they crowded into Billy's room. Whatever Fay had told the hospital staff, it was good for a lot. Which made sense to Rick. The ODS was good in and of itself, but it was better with a support system at home.

At least, that was how it had been with Simms. Now, Simms was gone, and everything was different.

Simms was gone, and Billy was here.

Simms had chosen to leave, but Rick had stayed. Rick had stayed, and Michael and Casey had chosen to stay, too. Now it was just up to Billy.

Rick sat close. Michael hovered. Even Casey watched nearby while Billy lay stilly on the bed, breathing, fighting, _living._

"Just stay," Rick whispered, a quiet benediction at his bedside. "Stay, and we'll stay, too."

It was a promise.

It was the truth.

In everything, it was probably the only truth that mattered.

-o-

The team had a quiet resolve. It was like back at the office in Langley, they all approached things in their own way. Michael dealt with the medical staff, overseeing Billy's condition and orchestrating things back at the Agency. Casey brooded silently, alternating between stoic stillness and restless pacing. Sometimes Rick caught him humming under his breath, and in his mind he could still hear the haunting tune from Bolivia, when Rick had nearly bled out in the back of the van.

Rick had always wondered about his place in all this; he'd tried to figure out where he fit in. Sometimes he still didn't know what to say to Michael, and Casey's looks often left him feeling awkward and uncomfortable. But there was something different now, a shared understanding in the quiet between them.

They worked around each other, moving in understated harmony. When one of them left, the other took his place, and they brought coffee and doughnuts to share in turn. Rick knew that Michael liked salads for lunch and that Casey always loaded with protein, and one day Michael brought Rick his favorite kind of burger, and that was the way it was.

It wasn't so different, maybe, but somehow so much better. Together, they rallied. Together, they made sure that Billy knew where he belonged – right there with them.

Because Michael was the leader of the ODS. Casey was the strong man. Rick was the new guy. And Billy…

Time would tell, Rick knew as he sat and waited.

He had to believe that time would tell.

-o-

After two days, Billy's vitals improved. Michael picked up on this before the rest of them, noting the changes in the nurse's checkup and sitting up straighter during rounds with the doctor. When the doctor confirmed that Billy seemed to be rebounding, Casey perked up, and Rick found himself inching forward with wide eyes.

"So he's going to be okay?" he asked, not able to contain the hope welling up in him.

The doctor nodded, looking genuinely pleased. "He has a significant recovery period ahead, and the risk of infection remains high, but he's rapidly improving," she said. "I'm going to order that we reduce his medication and see if we can get him to start waking up in the next few days."

Rick stared, and then he looked at Billy. The Scotsman still looked pale, still looked a little gaunt, but he was alive. He was getting better. He was going to be okay.

Casey snorted and moved closer. Michael clapped Rick on the shoulder.

They were all going to be okay.

-o-

Billy Collins was missing for three years.

He was unconscious for nearly a week.

During the three years, the ODS had assumed he was dead. They had had no idea; they'd grieved and tried to move on.

During the week, the ODS never left his side. Because now they knew; they'd never make those mistakes again.

Then, Billy woke up.

The doctor had been expecting it all morning, but Billy seemed to take his time about it. It started with small movements, and then infinitesimal murmurs of what could have been pain. His eyes moved beneath his lids, and sometimes they found him looking blankly around the room before he shuffled back off to sleep.

Rick began to get impatient, fussing about the room. Casey's breathing was harsher, the traces of a song being pushed through under every exhale. Michael tapped his foot, staring and unmoving.

Waiting.

Three years.

One week.

And then Billy opened his eyes and_ looked _at them.

It took a moment, a long painful moment as the ODS gathered anxiously around, for Billy to blink once, and then twice, eyes focusing on each of them in turn. He swallowed, wincing at the movement, and then moistened his lips in vain.

"I thought I already had this hallucination," he said, voice scratchy with disuse and ragged with exhaustion, "Or has my rescue truly arrived again?"

Casey sucked in a breath and held it, and Michael seemed to waver precariously at Rick's side. But suddenly, Rick felt unusually secure. More secure than he ever had before.

He smiled. "Yeah," he said, leaning forward to squeeze Billy's arm. "We're here now."

Michael and Casey edged closer.

Rick held Billy's gaze. "And we're not going anywhere."

-o-

Michael and Casey had kept their word, and now Rick knew it was time to keep his. Casey had started showing signs of recklessness around the hospital, stalking the corridors and unsettling the nurses. Rick caught Michael tucking files into his suit jacket when he thought no one was looking, checking his phone for updates with a newfound persistence.

Part of Rick wanted to scold them, to ask them why it wasn't enough to just be there for Billy, to appreciate the fact that their missing teammate was alive and if not well, getting better. They'd lost three years, surely that was enough.

But Rick had to admit, he was starting to feel restless, too. Because as right as everything seemed, he knew Carson Simms was still out there, and he could still see the look on Carson's face before he turned away and left.

If Billy was their priority, that didn't mean that finding Simms wasn't important. Because Simms was their teammate, too. He'd made more mistakes than the rest of them, but they couldn't just forget him, even if Rick wanted to. There was a lot that Simms needed to answer to. Rick still didn't understand everything that had happened – not back at Salazar's compound and certainly not in North Africa.

Besides, as happy as Higgins was to have the plates and Salazar, Simms going AWOL was still a bit of a conundrum and although their boss had given them leeway for now, it wouldn't be long before they had to formally explain Simms' betrayal.

An explanation, Rick had to admit, that would be a lot easier with Carson Simms in tow. As it was, Michael's vague answers regarding Simms' whereabouts were being met with increasing skepticism. They were running out of time.

Billy was at PT for the day when Rick finally brought the issue to the foreground.

"Okay," he said. "You can go find Simms."

Casey stared at him as if he were speaking Swahili. Michael lifted his eyebrows. "I didn't realize we were looking for your permission," Michael noted cagily.

Rick blushed despite himself. "I know you're trying to hide it from me," he said. "But I also know you've picked up your search for Simms again."

Michael didn't deny it. Instead, he shrugged diffidently. "It's all well and good that we're bringing Billy back alive, but sooner or later, we're going to have to account for Carson."

"Apparently the Agency doesn't take well to its operatives going on the lam," Casey snerked. "National security being what it is and all."

Rick nodded readily. "How much blowback are we going to get for it?"

Michael looked vaguely impressed at the question, as if he hadn't thought Rick would be thinking about it that much. "Hard to say," he said. "The plates and Salazar got the Secret Service off our backs, and bringing Billy home will boost morale around the Agency, so Higgins would be inclined to write off our escapade down here, but without a concrete answer regarding Simms, it's going to look a little weird."

"You mean, we might be implicated," Rick realized.

"Guilt by association," Casey confirmed. "Sometimes we're not that different than the KGB."

Rick frowned, considering this for the first time. Simms had been part of their team – and integral part of their team. It was an obvious question: how didn't they know?

But how could they have known? Maybe they could have suspected, but they were spies, and the best damn spies at that. Simms had buried his secret so deep that Rick doubted anything would have dragged it out except the possible exposure of someone bringing his past to light for him.

"It doesn't help that we barely know the whole story," Michael said. "Casey and I have put together as much as we can, but Simms knew what he was doing when he ran. He incriminated himself, but the damning evidence is gone."

"Billy knows more," Rick replied. "I mean, he seemed to have a lot more of it figured out. If we talk to him…"

Rick trailed off. Billy had been held prisoner, assumed dead and shot. He'd been through enough. To ask him to relive it…

"Yeah," Michael said. "That's sort of what we thought, too. So really, finding Simms is our best bet."

Rick collected a breath and creased his brow. "So what leads do you have?"

Michael glanced at Casey, who looked a little impressed. He produced a piece of paper, holding it out.

Rick took it, looking at it curiously. "What's this?"

"A heating bill from a safe house we run off the books in Poland," Michael explained.

Rick scanned the numbers and the charges. "So?"

"So, you'll notice that most months we only incur enough of a payment to keep the pipes from freezing."

Rick saw the latest bill. "Someone's been using it."

Casey inclined his head. "Someone give the kid a cookie," he said pointedly.

Michael ignored the snide comment. "It was just a slight uptick, but we think it's enough for a night or two," he said. "Chances are he's already left by now."

"But these charges are recent," Casey said.

"So Simms can't be far," Rick said, feeling a twinge of hope.

"That's our thought," Michael said. "If we can get a plane out of here, we can be in Europe by tomorrow. We still have some unofficial assets in the area, and if Simms is around, he's probably burned through a few. If we're lucky, we might get enough intel to piece together his next move."

"Then we can apprehend him, take him into custody, and serve his slimy little head on a platter to Higgins," Casey said with earnest vitriol.

"Or at least hope that he can find his conscience enough to clear us of any wrongdoing," Michael said. "And if he comes willingly, we may be able to spin it to get him a little leeway."

"I'm not sure I agree with that course of action," Casey growled.

Michael shot Casey a look. "Well, we can cross that bridge when we get to it."

Rick could only nod. "It looks good," he said, holding the paper back out as Michael took it. He looked at his teammates again. "It sounds good."

"We thought so," Michael said, tucking the paper into his suit. He hesitated. "You can stall here with Billy for another week or so until he's fully recovered. If we're not back by then, you'll have to go back to the States—"

"Whoa," Rick interrupted. "Without you?"

Michael shrugged. "I'm hoping it doesn't take that long—"

"But Billy—"

"Will have you," Casey said tersely.

"But Higgins—"

Michael gave Rick a disapproving look. "You're good enough to be able to handle Higgins."

Rick frowned, then took a breath. "Okay," he said.

Michael actually looked relieved.

Then Rick added, "But you have to tell Billy."

"Well, we did plan on saying goodbye," Michael said.

Rick shook his head. "You have to tell him what you're doing and why," he said.

Michael's expression shifted slightly, and Casey's face set into a deep scowl.

"He deserves to know," Rick said. "Or do we have to go over the whole three years thing?"

Michael rolled his head. "No, you don't have to browbeat us into submission again," he said. "We'll tell him."

Casey held up a finger. "We'll tell him for_ his sake_," he clarified. "Not because you insist on using inane emotional appeals to attempt to make your point."

Rick couldn't help but grin a little. "That's how teams work."

"Using emotional manipulation to get their way?" Casey asked.

"No," Rick said. "They hold each other accountable."

Michael snorted. "I guess Simms missed that memo, huh."

"Not if we can find him and make him do the right thing," Rick said.

Casey shook his head, brushing past them. "Somehow I'm not holding my breath."

Following after him, Rick hated to agree.

-o-

They waited until after dinner. Billy usually slept after PT, having thoroughly exhausted himself. He was recovering fairly well, according to the doctor, although his weakened overall condition had not helped him any. The doctors didn't say much about that, but there were obviously some lingering questions in their eyes about just who this patient was and just what he'd been through.

Billy, thankfully, was their best defense against any skepticism, though. The Scot, though weak and hurting, was effervescent, charming everyone on staff within a day of waking up. He was upbeat and friendly, cracking jokes and telling stories. He didn't talk about three years of incarceration or how he'd been chained to a bed and left to his own boredom for endless hours. He didn't talk about minimal human contact and poor living conditions.

Sometimes, Rick thought he caught a glimpse of sadness in the other man's eyes, but Billy always hid it well. That worried Rick some – he knew PTSD was a serious and real thing, and he knew Billy would be a prime candidate – but if anyone could survive three years in captivity with their spirit intact, it was Billy Collins.

Besides, Rick knew there'd be time for talking and time for healing once they got back home.

Billy ate the dinner heartily, even though Rick had found it barely palatable. Rested and fed, the Scot settled back in his bed with a sigh. "Comfortable as this is, I have to admit, I think I'm ready to go home," he murmured with an air of contentment.

"I think we all are," Rick said.

Michael hesitated, glancing at Rick and Casey.

Billy sat up straighter, eyes narrowing in on his teammates. "That's not quite true, is it?"

It probably shouldn't have been surprising; Billy had an uncanny sense of his teammates. It made sense, Rick figured, but Billy's ability to read him like a book was still a bit startling at times.

Michael sighed in resignation. "We're more than ready to go home," he said. "We just have to tie up a few loose ends first."

Billy frowned. "You said Higgins was quite pleased at the outcome of this mission," he said. "You deconstructed a counterfeiting monopoly and even got the ring leader in CIA custody alive, prime for interrogation. Plus, you're bringing home a prodigal son. What more could Higgins and his ilk ask for?"

Michael hesitated again, swallowing.

Realization settled over Billy's face. "Simms."

Michael gathered a breath, shrugging a little. "He's got a lot to answer for," he said. "I'm not sure we can convince HR he's on an impromptu vacation."

Billy's expression wavered for a moment, his brow knitting. "So he's made no contact then."

Casey grunted. "Not a sound," he muttered. "Bastard."

Billy's mouth drew closed and he nodded seriously. "He's not a traitor, you know."

Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Rick felt his stomach ache a little. It was one thing to say it himself, but to hear Billy say it…after what Carson had done to him…

Pursing his lips, Michael said, "He gave Salazar enough intel three years ago to put the man on top of the business. Even if it was extortion, it's a serious breach, and the Agency's going to want to deal with that."

"I know Simms, and I know Salazar," Billy told them. "This wasn't voluntary."

"Maybe," Michael said.

"But not telling us for three years and letting us think you were dead was," Casey said sharply.

Rick winced, but it was true. Even as much as he wanted to understand Simms, it was true.

"That's not fair," Billy said quietly.

"No," Michael said. "But neither is the fact that you spent three years in Salazar's outhouse so Simms could cover his backside."

"Not to mention the fact that he shot you," Casey pointed out.

Billy worked his jaw, looking down at his hands. For a moment, the buoyant personality was gone, and Rick saw the man beneath the guise. Older, tired, and worn. Billy Collins was a damaged man, holding more pain than anyone should. What had been done to him – by his captors, by his own teammate – it was more than Rick could even imagine carrying.

He wasn't larger than life – Billy was holding himself together with all the strength he had left.

Rick felt his resolve harden; maybe Michael and Casey were right. Maybe Simms deserved every punishment the Agency could dole out – and then some.

But then Billy looked up. His blue eyes were clear and determined. His shoulders were squared, his head high. "We've all made mistakes," he said. "Some of us more than others, and you both know it. You all gave me a second chance, and I expect you to afford the same grace to Carson."

Michael inhaled, gritting his teeth. "It's different—"

"Oh?" Billy asked. "You're talking to the man who only avoided a conviction of treason by taking a plea deal that exiled me from my homeland. Or have you both forgotten that salient little detail with your warpath against Simms?"

Rick blinked, surprised, trying to make sense of this new information. He knew Billy was from Scotland – that much was obvious. But he'd figured maybe the man had dual citizenship, maybe he'd just grew up overseas.

But then he remembered the poetry. The story of a man cast away from home, finding a place to belong amongst strangers who would become his family.

This was why Billy had forgiven Simms so readily; this was why he'd understood. Sometimes you saved yourself because it was all you had. You could learn from that, though; you could do better the next time.

Like Billy.

Or you could keep running, like Simms.

Casey had grown painfully stiff and silent, while Michael was clearly working to retain a sense of composure. "I thought you said that was a misunderstanding."

"It depends on who you talk to," Billy said. "It's all about perspective in these kinds of things, and I think we ought to think about Carson's point of view."

"He _shot _you," Casey interjected roughly, his still exterior bursting for a moment as pure rage pulsated through him. "He fired a bullet into your body and left you to die."

"And that was the _second _time he did that," Michael reminded him. "We would have understood in North Africa if he'd had to leave you behind. We would have understood if he told us. He didn't."

Billy's shoulders slumped, and he looked ragged again. "I know what he's done," he said quietly. "And I know I'm ready to let go. If I work to hold Simms accountable, if we hold onto the past…"

Then it could destroy them, Rick realized. Starting with Billy.

The Scot was weak; he was barely holding it together. He didn't need justice. He certainly didn't need revenge.

He needed his team.

"We're going to need a story to tell to Higgins," Rick said, piping up for the first time.

They all looked at him.

Rick shrugged. "Without Simms in custody, there's going to be a lot of questions."

"And I have answers," Billy said readily. "Lots of them."

Michael clucked his tongue a bit, shaking his head. "I don't think—"

Billy waved his hand through the air. "Pshaw," he said. "If I want to get back in the field, I'm going to be debrief and psychoanalyzed anyway. I might as well make it worth something to all of us."

"Wait," Casey said, indignant. "We're actually thinking about letting him go?"

"No," Billy said. "We're talking about letting him make his choice. And then we're talking about making our own."

Casey's anger seemed to simmer with that, settling on something more like moderate dislike. Michael sighed, but Rick found himself smiling.

Billy looked at them each, eyes brightening. "It's not quite the old gang, I reckon, but it's not so bad," he said. "Young Rick here seems to have the makings of quite the operative if I do say so myself. And his upbeat personality is well suited to balance out all the negativity from the older half of this enterprise."

Casey's dislike turned to annoyance, and Michael scoffed. "We only rescued you a few weeks ago, and you're already insulting us?" he asked.

Billy shrugged. "It's not an insult," he said. "Just…pointing out the reality. We complement each other quite nicely, don't you think?"

And Rick had to admit, they did. Michael had the brains; Casey had the brawn. Rick had the heart, and Billy had the spirit.

They fit together, like they were meant to be that way. Like this was how it should have been from the beginning.

Like this was how it'd be from here on out.

And Rick couldn't wait to find out.


	9. POSTLUDE

A/N: Much thanks to everyone read and reviewed and stuck with this one. Thanks again to **lena7142** and **pen less **for the unending help, support, and friendship.

**POSTLUDE  
**  
Rick was nervous.

After his tumultuous first year at the Agency, he would have thought he was immune to nerves. He was a different person now, a far more experienced operative. It was almost funny to him sometimes, to think about how it started. To think about driving in with his liquids neatly stored on the seat next to him, before nearly being shot. He'd almost been fired that day, and then he'd become a mole, and then he'd become so much more.

His team had been difficult, to say the least, and he'd spent most of his time trying to figure them out. What he learned, however, was that sometimes it wasn't about the things that were there, but the things that were missing.

Even in the last few months, since Rick had discovered Billy Collins, he'd nearly lost his job and his life. In some ways, that should have scared him the most, but it had worked out. Sure, they'd lost Carson Simms, but Rick sort of wondered if they'd been missing him all along.

Now Rick had inroads with his boss, a secure place on a team he trusted, and there was just one more thing that needed to be done.

Which was why Rick was nervous.

He'd gotten there early to get his preparations done. He'd fussed and overthought, and by the time Casey opened the door to the office, Rick was almost ready to call the whole thing off.

"Heads up, Martinez," Casey said gruffly. "New guy."

Rick stood up, feeling flustered as his face flushed. Still, he grinned. "He's not a new guy," he said. "He's been here longer than I have."

Behind Casey, Billy smiled. He paused in the doorway, looking around, half in awe. He was wearing a three-piece suit, tie just slightly loosened at the neck. It had been two months since Panama. Two months and Billy was medically cleared, psychologically assessed and fully debriefed before being granted his job back with the Agency.

"I may have to agree with Casey this time," Billy mused, still eyeing the room in apparent disbelief. "This all feels rather new to me."

Casey rolled his eyes, dropping a box off on the vacant desk. "I tried to find the box of your possession from when we cleaned up before, but I think it got redistributed," he said. He shrugged, moving over to his desk. "So you can have the leftovers from Vance's retirement instead."

Billy barely heard him. Rick couldn't help it if he peaked into the box, yearning for the yellow post-it notes but opting for restraint instead. Grinning, he moved up to Billy, offering his hand. "It's good to have you here."

Billy took the hand, returning the handshake. "It's good to be here," he said. "Especially considering the alternatives."

The door opened again and Michael came through, carrying a computer. He set it down on the desk, and gave Billy a sideways smile. "I made sure to find a computer that came with Minesweeper," he said.

Billy chuckled. "Good man, Michael Dorset. Nice to see that time has mellowed you."

Michael shrugged. "The team dynamic has changed," he said, eyes flitting to Rick. "Sometimes for the better."

Rick didn't disagree, but this wasn't because of him. At least, not only about him. It was about Billy. And Michael and Casey and Rick. The ODS.

Billy lingered curiously, studying his desk and cocking his head. "I appreciate the welcome, mates," he said. "But isn't this supposed to be young Rick's desk?"

Michael and Casey looked at Rick, who shrugged. "I did sit there," Rick acknowledged. "But it was always your seat."

Billy chuffed. "I do not want my return to usurp your hard-earned place. I know how difficult these men are to win over. If you're still here, you deserve your desk more than I."

Rick scoffed. "Like you said, they've mellowed," he said, nodding to Simms' old desk. He had spent all morning moving his things over, setting it up just right. "Besides. I like the view from here."

"It is the closest spot to the door," Michael pointed out.

"So in case of terrorist attack, they'll take out Martinez first," Casey added with a shrug. "I can't complain."

Rick rolled his eyes, but Billy seemed drawn to his desk. He moved closer, running his fingers over the top, feeling the grooves, eyeing the indentations. "Hard to believe it's all the same as it was," he murmured.

And there Rick was thinking how hard to believe that things were so _different._

Yet, still so right.

Michael had his glasses on, a file in front of him. Casey was clicking at his computer. Billy circled his desk once before sitting down in the chair, testing it, leaning back and stretching his legs out.

Rick watched, then smiled. Then he sat down in his desk and thought how for the first time since he'd come to the Agency, everything finally fit into place.

Like it should have been this way since the beginning.


End file.
